3  1822017193798 


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Ul       -;  -  -TY  OF 

i  SNIA 

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31822017193798 


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University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

Date  Due 


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DEC  1  3  1994 


UCSDLi). 


TWICE-BORN   MEN 
A  Clinic  in  Regeneration 


75*82 


TWICE-BORN   MEN 

A  Clinic  in  Regeneration 


A  FOOTNOTE  IN  NARRATIVE 

TO 

PROFESSOR        WILLIAM       JAMES'S 
"THE  VARIETIES  OF  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE" 


By 

HAROLD    BEGBIE 


Author  of 

"The  Vigil,"   "  Tables  of  Stont," 
<Sfc..  <Sfc. 


NEW  YORK         CHICAGO        TORONTO 

Fleming   H.  Revell  Company 

LONDON  AND         EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto  :  25  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London  :  2 1  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh :  100  Princes  Street 


TO 

WILLIAM  JAMES 

PROFESSOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY   AT  HARVARD   UNIVERSITY 
WITH  ADMIRATION  AND  RESPECT 


"Afo  heart  is  pure  that  is  not  passionate , 
No  -virtue  is  safe  that  is  not  enthusiastic." 

SEELEY. 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE 


A  PART  OF  LONDON 29 


II 


THE  PUNCHER 38 


III 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 63 


IV 


O.  B.  D 89 


THE  CRIMINAL  .       .       .       .no 


8  CONTENTS 

VI 
A  COPPER  BASHER      ......     147 

VII 
LOWEST  OF  THE  Low  .       .       .       .      >      .     169 

VIII 
THE  PLUMBER 189 

IX 
RAGS  AND  BONES 218 

X 

APPARENT  FAILURE     .       .       .       .       .       .     242 

POSTSCRIPT 272 


PREFACE 


WHILE   I  was  gathering    together  the 
strange  and  almost  inconceivable  ma- 
terials which  go  to  make  this  book,  I 
was  conscious  of  so  many  and  such  diverse  emo- 
tions that  the  point  of  view  from  which  it  should 
be  written  changed  with  every  fresh  turn  in  my 
journey  of  discovery,  and  perplexed  me  increas- 
ingly with  the  multitude  of  its  aspects. 

But  now  that  I  sit  down  actually  to  write  what 
I  have  learned,  now  that  I  set  out  to  play  show- 
man, dramatist,  or  author  to  the  little  group  of 
human  beings  with  whom  I  have  been  compan- 
ioned for  the  past  few  weeks,  there  is  in  my  mind 
one  uppermost  feeling,  one  central  and  dominat- 
ing sensation  of  the  emotions,  and  this  is  a  feel- 
ing of  astonishment  that  all  the  terrible  tragedy, 
all  the  infinite  pathos,  all  the  amazing  psychology, 
all  the  agony  and  bitter  suffering,  all  the  depth 
and  profundity  of  spiritual  experience  with  which 
I  have  to  deal,  all  of  it,  was  discovered  in  a  single 
quarter  of  London. 

Here  in  this  little  book,  which  tells  the  story  of 

9 


10  PREFACE 

a  few  humble  and  quite  commonplace  human  be- 
ings, is  such  astonishing  psychology  as  must 
surely  bewilder  the  metaphysician,  the  social  re- 
former, the  criminologist,  the  theologian,  and  the 
philosopher;  and  it  is  unearthed,  brought  to  the 
surface  of  observation,  this  incredible  psychology, 
from  a  single  quarter  of  the  city,  from  a  few 
shabby  streets  huddled  together  on  the  western 
edge  of  the  metropolis,  forming  a  locality  of  their 
own,  calling  themselves  by  a  particular  name,  and 
living  almost  as  entirely  aloof  from  the  rest  of 
London  as  Cranford  from  Drumble. 

One  would  say  that  a  man  might  go  here  and 
there  in  London,  picking  and  choosing  among  all 
the  city's  multifarious  districts,  and  at  the  end  of 
his  researches  find  half  a  dozen  human  beings 
whose  psychological  experiences  would  amaze  the 
general  world  and  prove  of  considerable,  even  of 
lasting  interest  to  metaphysics  and  philosophy. 
But  who  would  say  that  one  might  find,  without 
difficulty  and  without  selection,  in  a  single  negli- 
gible fragment  of  the  vast  city,  men  whose  feel- 
ings, struggles,  and  experiences  in  the  moral 
sphere  contribute  such  extraordinary  material  to 
psychology  as  that  of  which  this  book  is  com- 
posed? One  is  startled  by  the  possibility  that 
every  single  individual  among  the  city's  swarm- 
ing millions,  the  fermentation  of  whose  brains  is 
the  spirit,  mystery,  and  attraction  of  the  great 
city,  has  this  supreme  interest  for  the  rest  of  us — 


PREFACE  11 

that  every  single  individual  maintains  a  struggle 
of  some  kind  with  the  forces  of  good  and  evil, 
and  in  the  silence  of  his  soul  holds  some  secret 
intercourse  with  the  universe.  Is  it  possible  that 
the  vilest,  the  most  degraded,  the  most  abandoned, 
and  even  the  most  stupid  of  all  those  massed  and 
congregated  millions,  hides  from  the  gaze  of  his 
fellow-men  longings  and  hungering  aspirations 
which  in  the  eyes  of  the  angels  entitle  him  to  his 
place  in  the  cosmos? 

One  feels,  standing  at  some  central  point  in 
London,  and  studying  the  incessant  multitude  of 
human  beings,  that  personality  is  blurred  into 
some  such  sameness  as  one  sees  in  a  flock  of 
sheep,  or  in  a  procession  of  waves,  or  in  an  ant- 
heap.  And  passing  through  a  dreary  street  of 
interminable  villas,  one  feels  that  a  monotony 
similar  to  the  bricks  and  slates  and  window- 
frames  must  characterize  the  lives  of  their  occu- 
piers, that  the  man  who  lives  in  Number  3  can  be 
of  no  more  interest  to  us  than  the  man  who  pays 
the  rent  of  Number  27,  and  that  all  the  children 
playing  on  the  pavements  or  shouting  in  the  road 
are  similar  one  to  the  other  as  the  leaves  on  the 
stunted  limes  behind  the  garden  railings. 

But  reflection  tells  us  that  every  human  unit  in 
this  great  mass  of  mortality  has  a  silence  and  a 
solitude  proper  to  himself  alone.  His  thought  is 
separate.  Fractional  may  be  his  occupation  or 
his  idleness,  his  virtue  or  his  vice,  his  laughter 


12  PREFACE 

or  his  tears;  but  he  himself,  he  in  the  silence  and 
solitude  of  his  thought,  the  quintessence  of  the 
man,  is  integral.  One  may  classify  him  in  a  hun- 
dred ways,  and  find  that  he  fits  perfectly  into  our 
tables  of  anthropological  statistics;  but  the  silence 
and  the  solitude  in  which  his  thought  dwells  pre- 
serve the  ultimate  reality  of  his  identity  from  our 
research. 

Possibly,  then,  every  individual  life  apparently 
merged  and  lost  in  the  thick  density  of  the  mass, 
could  we  penetrate  to  this  solitude  of  the  soul, 
would  possess  interest  for  the  gossip  and  informa- 
tion for  the  student  of  human  nature. 

More  or  less  interest;  more  or  less  information. 

Yes;  this  is  probably  true.  The  apprehension 
that  every  unit  in  the  multitude  has  his  own  in- 
dividual silence  of  the  soul,  his  own  impenetrable 
chamber  of  thought,  his  own  unbroken  and  in- 
communicable solitude,  brings  home  to  us  the 
knowledge  that  one's  own  pressing  sense  of  per- 
sonal identity  is  the  property  of  all  mankind,  that 
sameness  is  ultimately  impossible,  that  variation 
is  the  law,  that  the  swarm  is  composed  of  separate 
and  individual  ones. 

And  yet  it  still  remains  remarkable  that  all  the 
wonderful  biography  of  this  book  was  discovered 
in  a  single  quarter  of  the  town. 


PREFACE  IS 

II 

In  The  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  Pro- 
fessor William  James  defines  religion  as  "  the 
feelings,  acts,  and  experiences  of  individual  men 
in  their  solitude,  so  far  as  they  apprehend  them- 
selves to  stand  in  relation  to  whatever  they  may 
consider  the  divine."  This  definition  must  not  be 
restricted  to  theologians  and  philosophers.  Ham- 
let's religion  is  more  to  humanity  than  that  of 
Athanasius.  The  religion  of  Crainquebille  has 
its  profound  interest.  Every  man  who  thinks  at 
all,  however  noisy  his  public  worship  of  the  no- 
God,  does  in  his  solitude  feel  himself  to  stand  in 
some  relation  to  the  universe.  Every  man  has  a 
religion. 

This  religion  of  the  ordinary  man  must  possess 
more  interest  for  the  student  of  human  nature 
than  "  the  second-hand  religious  life  "  of  the  con- 
ventional formalist.  It  has  the  attraction  of  di- 
versity, the  sympathy  of  drama,  the  force  of  real- 
lity.  It  is  "  the  primordial  thing."  "  Churches," 
says  Professor  James,  "  when  once  established, 
live  at  second-hand  upon  tradition,  but  the  found- 
ers of  every  Church  owed  their  power  originally 
to  the  fact  of  their  direct  personal  communion 
with  the  divine.  Not  only  the  superhuman  found- 
ers, the  Christ,  the  Buddha,  Mahomet,  but  all  the 
originators  of  Christian  sects  have  been  in  this 
case." 


14  PREFACE 

Here,  in  this  book,  then,  is  a  record  of  individ- 
ual religion  manifesting  itself  in  modern  London 
among  men  with  whom  a  theologian  would 
scarcely  pause  for  a  moment's  discussion,  but  who 
may  seem  to  the  reader,  nevertheless,  of  that  very 
order  of  simple  souls  chosen  by  the  Light  of  the 
World  for  the  central  revolution  of  human  his- 
tory. 

If  there  is  aught  in  these  men  to  shock  our  re- 
spect for  the  normal,  let  it  be  remembered  that 
profound  changes  in  character  are  not  conven- 
tional. You  cannot  have  upheaval  with  platitude. 

Professor  James  teaches  the  student  of  psychol- 
ogy to  expect  something  exceptional  and  eccen- 
tric in  men  who  have  suffered  a  profound  spiritual 
experience.  He  contrasts  such  men  with  the 
ordinary  religious  believer  "  who  follows  the  con- 
ventional observances  of  his  country,  whether  it 
be  Buddhist,  Christian,  or  Mohammedan;  his  re- 
ligion has  been  made  for  him  by  others,  com- 
municated to  him  by  tradition,  determined  to  fixed 
forms  by  imitation,  and  retained  by  habit."  He 
declares  that  it  profits  us  little  to  study  this 
second-hand  religious  life,  and  says,  "  We  must 
make  search  rather  for  the  original  experiences 
which  were  the  pattern-setters  to  all  this  mass  of 
suggested  feeling  and  imitated  conduct.  These 
experiences  we  can  only  find  in  individuals  for 
whom  religion  exists  not  as  a  dull  habit,  but  as 
an  acute  fever  rather."  As  Seeley  says  in  the 


PREFACE  15 

phrase  which  I  have  taken  for  the  motto  of  this 
book,  "  No  heart  is  pure  that  is  not  passionate; 
no  virtue  is  safe  that  is  not  enthusiastic." 

Such  religion  as  this  book  will  contain  is  the 
strange,  individual,  and  elemental  force  which  one 
finds  in  the  Book  of  Job,  in  the  Psalms  of  David, 
in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  It  is  the  struggle  of 
over-mastered  and  defeated  souls  for  liberty,  for 
life,  for  escape  from  hell.  It  reveals  in  the 
hearts  of  men  whom  science  and  law  would  con- 
demn as  hopeless  of  reformation,  such  possi- 
bilities of  purity  and  devotion  as  La  Rochefou- 
cauld would  have  us  believe  do  not  exist  even  in 
the  hearts  of  the  best.  It  is  religion  terribly  real 
in  men  who  have  terribly  suffered. 

From  this  religion  of  my  book  flows  every- 
thing else. 

Ill 

At  the  beginning  is  the  revelation  that  the  lost 
can  be  saved.  One  listens  too  willingly  nowa- 
days to  the  pathologist  ready  to  pronounce  physio- 
logical judgment  upon  every  soul  of  man.  It  is 
our  avoidance  of  the  miracle  which  disposes  us  to 
the  conviction  that  certain  people  are  beyond  the 
reach  of  regeneration.  Our  fashionable  support 
of  the  Salvation  Army  is  inspired  largely  by  the 
success  of  what  is  called  its  "  Social  Work."  We 
think  that  a  tramp  may  be  lifted  from  the  gutters, 


16  PREFACE 

stood  upon  his  feet,  put  to  some  task,  and  made  a 
citizen;  we  think  that  a  family  sinking  towards 
destitution  may  be  emigrated  to  Canada  and 
saved  to  human  society;  but,  antipathy  to  the 
miracle  will  not  let  us  believe  that  a  dipsomaniac 
of  a  sudden  can  lose  all  desire  for  alcohol,  that  a 
criminal  who  has  spent  the  best  part  of  his  life  in 
prisons  may  of  a  sudden  turn  from  his  crime;  we 
are  sceptical  about  these  revolutions  which  pathol- 
ogy is  inclined  to  pronounce  impossible,  and  as  for 
"  conversions  " — as  for  the  dipsomaniac  and  the 
gaol-bird  becoming  savers  of  other  men  in  the 
name  of  religion — as  for  this,  we  shrug  our 
shoulders  and  inquire,  Is  it  true?  or  dismiss  it 
as  hysteria. 

But  to  make  a  tramp  a  workman  is  common- 
place. Why  are  we  interested  in  dull  things? 
To  convert  the  worst  of  men  into  a  saint  is  a 
miracle  in  psychology.  Why  are  we  not  inter- 
ested in  this  great  matter? 

IV 

What  is  "conversion"? 

According  to  Professor  James,  in  whose  steps 
we  follow  with  admiration  and  respect,  "  to  be 
converted,  to  be  regenerated,  to  receive  grace,  to 
experience  religion,  to  gain  assurance,  are  so 
many  phrases  which  denote  the  process,  gradual 
or  sudden,  by  which  a  self  hitherto  divided,  and 


PREFACE  17 

consciously  wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy,  be- 
comes unified  and  consciously  right,  superior,  and 
happy,  in  consequence  of  its  firmer  hold  upon 
religious  realities." 

Elsewhere  he  speaks  of  "those  striking  in- 
stantaneous instances  of  which  Saint  Paul's  is  the 
most  eminent,  and  in  which  often,  amid  tremen- 
dous emotional  excitement  or  perturbation  of  the 
senses,  a  complete  division  is  established  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  between  the  old  life  and  the 
new." 

These  definitions,  as  all  the  world  knows,  are 
illustrated  in  Professor  James's  book  by  remark- 
able and  well-authenticated  histories  of  personal 
conversion.  The  evidence  for  the  reality  of  these 
immense  changes  in  character  is  overwhelming, 
and  the  only  point  where  the  psychologists  find 
themselves  at  issue  is  the  means  by  which  they 
have  been  accomplished.  As  to  that  interesting 
conflict  of  opinion  the  reader  is  referred  to  the 
combatants.  The  purpose  of  this  book,  which  I 
venture  to  describe  as  a  footnote  in  narrative  to 
Professor  James's  famous  work,  is  to  bring  home 
to  men's  minds  this  fact  concerning  conversion, 
that,  whatever  it  may  be,  conversion  is  the  only 
means  by  which  a  radically  bad  person  can  be 
changed  into  a  radically  good  person. 

Whatever  we  may  think  of  the  phenomenon 
itself,  the  fact  stands  clear  and  unassailable  that 
by  this  thing  called  conversion,  men  consciously 


18  PREFACE 

wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy  become  consciously 
right,  superior,  and  happy.  It  produces  not  a 
change,  but  a  revolution  in  character.  It  does 
not  alter,  it  creates  a  new  personality.  The 
phrase  "  a  new  birth  "  is  not  a  rhetorical  hyper- 
bole, but  a  fact  of  the  physical  kingdom.  Men, 
who  have  been  irretrievably  bad,  and  under  con- 
version have  become  ardent  savers  of  the  lost, 
tell  us,  with  all  the  pathetic  emphasis  of  their 
inexpressible  and  impenetrable  discovery,  that  in 
the  change  which  overcame  them  they  were  con- 
scious of  being  "  born  again."  To  them,  and  we 
can  go  to  no  other  authorities,  this  tremendous 
revolution  in  personality  signifies  a  new  birth.  It 
transforms  Goneril  into  Cordelia,  Caliban  into 
Ariel,  Saul  of  Tarsus  into  Paul  the  apostle. 

There  is  no  medicine,  no  Act  of  Parliament,  no 
moral  treatise,  and  no  invention  of  philanthropy 
which  can  transform  a  man  radically  bad  into  a 
man  radically  good.  If  the  State,  burdened  and 
shackled  by  its  horde  of  outcasts  and  sinners, 
would  march  freely  and  efficiently  to  its  goal,  it 
must  be  at  the  hands  of  religion  that  relief  is 
sought.  Only  religion  can  perform  the  miracle 
which  will  convert  the  burden  into  assistance. 
There  is  nothing  else;  there  can  be  nothing  else. 
Science  despairs  of  these  people  and  pronounces 
them  "  hopeless  "  and  "  incurable."  Politicians 
find  themselves  at  the  end  of  their  resources. 
Philanthropy  begins  to  wonder  whether  its  char- 


PREFACE  19 

ity  could  not  be  turned  into  a  more  fertile  chan- 
nel. The  law  speaks  of  "  criminal  classes."  It 
is  only  religion  that  is  not  in  despair  about  this 
mass  of  profitless  evil  dragging  at  the  heels  of 
progress — the  religion  which  still  believes  in 
miracle. 

Professor  James,  you  notice,  speaks  of  men 
consciously  unhappy  becoming  consciously  happy. 
This  phrase  helps  one  to  understand  that  particu- 
lar side  of  the  Salvation  Army's  methods  which 
offends  so  many  people — its  bands,  its  cheerful 
singing,  and  its  laughing  optimism.  You  cannot 
imagine  what  effect  these  exhilarating  bands, 
these  rejoicing  hymns,  and  these  radiant  Salva- 
tionists produce  in  streets  of  infinite  squalor  and 
abysmal  degradation.  Think  what  it  means  for 
a  sodden  and  degraded  Miserable,  shivering  some 
Sunday  morning  in  his  filthy  rags  on  the  steps 
of  a  common  lodging-house,  hating  himself,  hat- 
ing God,  and  regarding  the  whole  race  of  human- 
ity with  hostility,  to  hear  suddenly  the  jocund 
clash  of  brass  music,  to  catch  words  that  challenge 
his  wretchedness  and  despair  with  exhilarating 
joy,  and  then  to  see  among  those  marching  down 
the  centre  of  his  dreary  street,  happy,  clean,  and 
rejoicing,  the  very  men  who  once  shared  his  dog's 
life  of  misery  and  crime. 

It  is  the  rejoicing,  singing,  irrepressible  happi- 
ness of  the  Salvationist,  which  often  makes  him 
such  a  powerful  saver  of  other  men.  Such  a 


20  PREFACE 

spirit  exists  in  these  savers  of  the  lost  as  moved 
an  American  writer,  quoted  by  Professor  James, 
to  exclaim :  "  I  am  bold  to  say  that  the  work  of 
God  in  the  conversion  of  one  soul,  considered 
together  with  the  source,  foundation,  and  pur- 
chase of  it,  and  also  the  benefit  and  eternal  issue 
of  it,  is  a  more  glorious  work  of  God  than  the 
creation  of  the  whole  material  universe."  Such 
a  phrase  almost  disgusts  the  cold-blooded.  But 
at  the  very  heart  of  this  mystery  of  conversion  is 
a  wild  joy.  A  soul  consciously  unhappy  has  be- 
come consciously  happy.  A  soul  bound  and  in 
prison  has  been  loosed  and  is  free.  Does  one 
expect  a  man  whose  entire  being  has  suffered  so 
great,  so  pervasive,  so  cataclysmic  a  change,  to 
walk  sedately,  to  measure  his  words,  to  take  the 
temperature  of  his  enthusiasm  and  feel  the  pulse 
of  his  transport?  The  enchanted  felicity  which 
sends  this  man  singing  and  marching  into  the 
slums  is  not  only  the  token  of  the  miracle  in 
himself,  but  is  the  magic,  as  my  book  shows  over 
and  over  again,  which  draws  unhappy  and  de- 
jected souls  to  make  surrender  of  their  sin  and 
wretchedness. 

Does  not  Christ  speak  of  a  sinner's  repentance 
actually  increasing  the  joy  of  Heaven? 

I  have  walked  with  one  of  these  converted 
Salvationists — an   ex-soldier   and   now   a   road- 
labourer  * — through  some  of  the  most  evil  and 
*"The  Tight  Handful,"  p.  63. 


PREFACE  81 

desperate  streets  in  West  London.  I  observed 
how  his  handsome  face,  with  its  bronzed  colour 
and  its  bright  eyes,  the  proud  carriage  of  his 
vigorous  body,  and  the  steadied  cheerfulness  of 
his  voice,  attracted  the  notice  and  held  the  atten- 
tion of  the  hundreds  of  disreputable  people 
swarming  in  that  neighbourhood.  I  attributed 
this  interest  to  his  good  looks  and  his  air  of  well- 
being;  for  my  companion,  on  these  occasions,  was 
not  in  the  uniform  of  the  Salvation  Army;  fresh 
from  his  work,  fresh  from  his  tea  in  a  com- 
fortable and  happy  home,  well  dressed,  smart,  and 
attractive,  he  walked  as  an  English  workman, 
consciously  right,  superior,  and  happy,  through 
streets  filled  with  people  consciously  wrong,  in- 
ferior, and  unhappy.  But  I  discovered  the 
reason  for  the  attention  he  attracted.  I  said  that 
the  people  seemed  to  regard  him  with  wonder, 
and  a  little  envy.  "  You  should  see  them,"  he 
replied,  "  when  we  march  down  here  on  Sunday 
morning  in  the  red  jersey;  I,  Tom  This,  Joe 
That,  and  Will  Other  fellow,  all  of  us  at  one  time 
the  worst  men  in  the  whole  neighbourhood." 

The  joy  of  the  converted  Salvationist,  so  at- 
tractive and  startling  to  miserable  and  abandoned 
wretches,  is  an  essential  feature  of  reform  by 
conversion.  It  is  almost  the  central  force  of 
the  whole  movement.  But  it,  in  its  turn,  effects 
conversion  by  love  of  the  highest  order — love 
which  seeks  out  the  lost  and  shows  infinite  tender- 


22  PREFACE 

ness  to  the  worst.  Professor  James  has  not 
missed  this  feature  of  work  by  conversion. 
"  General  Booth,  the  founder  of  the  Salvation 
Army,"  he  says,  "  considers  that  the  first  vital 
step  in  saving  outcasts  consists  in  making  them 
feel  that  some  decent  human  being  cares  enough 
for  them  to  take  an  interest  in  the  question 
whether  they  are  to  rise  or  sink."  The  amazing 
work  accomplished  by  the  Salvation  Army — a 
work  which  I  think  is  only  now  in  its  infancy,  and 
which  will  probably  be  subjected  to  endless  evo- 
lutionary changes  without  losing  its  essential 
character — is  a  work  of  Love  fired  and  inspired 
by  Joy. 

If  psychologists  would  know  the  secret  of  this 
miracle,  working  now  in  almost  every  country 
under  the  sun,  they  will  find  that  it  lies  in  using 
men  once  consciously  wrong,  inferior,  and  un- 
happy, using  them  to  seek  and  to  save,  with  a 
contagious  joy  and  a  vital  affection,  those  of  their 
own  condition  in  life  who  are  still  consciously 
wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy,  and  who  are  thus 
in  despair  about  themselves  only  because  they 
believe  that  no  one  on  earth  or  in  heaven  cares 
whether  they  rise  or  sink. 

The  social  work  of  the  Salvation  Army  is  as 
nothing  to  its  spiritual  work,  and  that  social  work 
itself  could  not  exist  without  the  miracle  of  con- 
version. 


PREFACE  23 


This  psychological  mystery  of  conversion  de- 
serves the  practical  attention  of  the  social  re- 
former. 

In  this  book  it  will  be  seen  that  all  the  punish- 
ments invented  by  law  for  the  protection  of  prop- 
erty and  the  reformation  of  the  criminal,  fail 
absolutely  of  their  purpose  in  certain  cases,  and 
only  render  more  hard  and  more  rebellious  the 
lawless  mind;  whereas  that  lawless  mind,  ap- 
parently so  brutal,  terrible,  and  hopeless,  responds 
with  extraordinary  sensitiveness  to  love  and  pity, 
and  under  the  influence  of  religion  becomes  per- 
fected in  all  that  makes  for  the  highest  citizen- 
ship. 

It  would  be  a  simple  reform,  and  yet  one  of  the 
most  humane  and  useful,  if  the  State  did  away 
with  the  formality  of  prison  chaplains,  men  who 
too  often  perform  their  perfunctory  duties  with 
little  enthusiasm  and  with  little  hope  of  achieving 
anything,  and  admitted,  under  proper  authority, 
some  such  organization  as  the  Salvation  Army, 
which  has  in  its  ranks  many  men  who  have  them- 
selves suffered  in  prison,  who  know  the  criminal 
mind,  and  who  would  approach  the  most  deplor- 
able and  hopeless  case  with  the  certain  knowledge 
that  conversion  is  possible. 

Few  people,  I  think,  after  reading  this  book, 
will  be  able  to  enunciate  the  prayer,  "That  it 


24  PREFACE 

may  please  Thee  to  have  pity  upon  all  prisoners 
and  captives,"  without  feeling  that  divine  pity 
will  only  manifest  itself  when  human  pity  has 
learned  to  make  use  of  common  sense  in  the 
matter  of  its  State  prisons. 

The  strange  revelations  which  this  book  makes 
concerning  our  prisons  and  our  police,  while  they 
must  shock  and  surprise  the  reader,  will  lead,  I 
hope,  to  some  change  in  administration  which 
will  prevent  the  manufacture  of  a  criminal  class — 
one  of  the  achievements  of  the  present  system. 

The  police  have  many  virtues,  the  prison  sys- 
tem has  of  late  years  been  greatly  improved,  but, 
as  this  book  will  show,  for  certain  men,  forming 
what  is  called  the  criminal  class,  police  and  prison 
join  forces  to  build  a  barrier  against  their  im- 
provement. It  is  appalling  to  think  that  men 
who  once  got  into  the  black  books  of  the  police  of 
their  neighbourhood,  were  marked  down  by  them 
for  such  cruel  harassing,  such  fiendish  persecu- 
tion, and  such  cowardly  bullying  as  hardly  dis- 
graced a  man-o'-war  in  the  worst  days  of  the 
press-gang. 

However  this  particular  attitude  of  the  police 
towards  their  enemies  may  have  changed  of  late, 
for  masses  of  people  in  London  the  police  still 
exist,  not  as  the  guardians  of  public  order,  but 
as  agents  of  the  rich  and  enemies  of  the  poor. 

Until  one  penetrates  into  the  vast  areas  of 
destitution  which  crowd  on  every  side  the  little 


PREFACE  25 

centre  of  London's  wealth  and  prosperity,  it  is 
impossible  to  realize  how  largely  this  barbarous 
notion  of  the  police  rules  the  minds  of  the  multi- 
tude. Few  things  so  sharply  challenge  our  civili- 
zation deeply  reflected  on  as  this  attitude  of  the 
poor  towards  the  guardians  of  public  order. 

VI 

While  it  is  impossible  for  one  to  say,  after 
reading  the  strange  histories  recorded  in  this 
volume,  that  any  man  is  hopelessly  lost  to  re- 
ligion, virtue,  and  self-respect,  the  ancient  con- 
viction remains — a  form  of  the  adage  which  says, 
Prevention  is  better  than  Cure — that  the  business 
of  all  reformation  begins  with  the  child. 

In  the  first  pages  of  this  book  I  shall  attempt 
to  sketch  the  neighbourhood  in  which  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  my  broken  earthenware.  Lon- 
don is  made  up  of  such  localities,  few,  perhaps, 
worse,  many  as  bad,  but  all  marked  by  the  one 
great  damning  shame  of  child  waste.  Wherever 
you  go  in  London  you  will  find  children  living 
under  the  horrible  influence  of  parents  who  deny, 
with  every  commandment  in  the  Decalogue,  the 
authority  of  the  moral  sense  and  the  commonest 
laws  of  sanitation.  To  leave  these  children  under 
the  domination  of  such  parents  is  to  imperil  their 
physical  and  moral  well-being,  is  to  bring  up  a 
posterity  unworthy  of  a  proud  and  high-spirited 


26  PREFACE 

nation,  is  to  lay  upon  our  children  an  increase  of 
that  burden  which  is  already  causing  us  to  stumble 
in  our  march. 

"  One  million  people  are  living  on  the  rate- 
payers," says  a  newspaper.  "  Twenty-six  mil- 
lions of  money  are  raised  in  one  way  or  another 
to  support  this  host  of  paupers."  The  Salvation 
Army  speaks  of  "  the  vast  army — numbering 
tens  of  thousands — of  tramps  who  prey  on  the 
public  charity  to  the  estimated  extent  of  three 
millions  a  year,  who  do  no  work,  and  who  cost 
the  community  an  immense  sum  in  Poor  Law 
relief." 

Is  the  burden  being  lightened  or  increased? 
Is  it  likely  to  lighten  or  decrease  while  the  chil- 
dren of  the  slums  are  left  with  their  abominable 
parents  ? 

There  is  another  aspect.  Is  it  humane,  has  it 
the  sanction  of  the  religious  conscience  of  the 
nation,  that  children  should  be  left  to  live  with 
parents  infinitely  below  the  moral  standard  which 
exists  among  the  negroes  of  Africa? 

We  have  ceased  to  be  sentimental.  Such  a 
ballad  as  The  Cry  of  the  Children  would  fail  to 
move  the  contemporary  world.  But  we  are  prac- 
tical, we  are  anxious  to  do  well.  Some  appeal 
addressed  to  the  religious  conscience  of  the  na- 
tion in  the  name  of  this  great  army  of  soiled 
innocence  and  poisoned  childhood — if  it  showed  a 
practical  way  out — would  surely  meet  with  a  re- 


PREFACE  37 

sponse.  The  Churches,  who  have  divine  reasons 
for  conserving  the  purity  of  the  child,  and  politi- 
cians, whose  responsibility  to  posterity  is  the 
child,  must  feel  if  they  give  attention  to  this 
subject  that  the  necessity  for  immediate  and 
drastic  action  is  at  our  doors. 

In  the  meantime  there  is  appalling  waste,  hid- 
eous ruin,  and  unthinkable  pain.  One  reads,  for 
instance :  "  Turn  to  any  town,  and  you  find  the 
officials  saying,  '  There  are  scores  of  little  chil- 
dren in  this  town — nay  (where  the  town  is  a 
large  one)  hundreds — living  under  circumstances 
of  the  most  shocking  depravity:  living  in  condi- 
tions from  which,  under  existing  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment, they  ought  to  be  rescued;  living  in  sur- 
roundings in  which  it  is  impossible  for  them  to 
grow  up  other  than  a  burden  and  a  danger  to  the 
State:  living  in  a  manner  which  makes  them  a 
source  of  moral  defilement  to  all  other  children 
with  whom  they  come  in  contact,  whether  at 
school  or  elsewhere:  living  in  what  are  nothing 
else  than  human  middens.' ' 

At  a  low  estimate  the  children  of  the  worst 
tramps  number  five  thousand,  a  fragment  of  the 
army  of  childhood  doomed  to  unspeakable  suf- 
fering and  corruption  from  their  infancy;  in 
Great  Britain  there  are  thirty  thousand  children 
"  doomed  to  be  criminals,  doomed  to  be  outcasts, 
to  be  even  worse  than  that." 


28  PREFACE 

VII 

Beyond  seeking  to  interest  the  reader  in  the 
psychological  mystery  of  conversion,  and  beyond 
seeking  to  bring  home  to  practical  men  the  im- 
mense value  of  personal  religion  in  the  work  of 
social  regeneration,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  work  of 
developing  national  character,  this  book  endeav- 
ours to  create  sympathy  for  two  rational  and 
economic  reforms:  a  reform  of  our  prison  sys- 
tem, especially  in  its  educative  and  saving  func- 
tions; and  a  reform  of  our  administration  as 
touching  the  children  of  iniquitous  parents. 

The  note  of  the  book  is  not  one  of  despair;  it  is 
distinctly  one  of  hope.  That  is  why  action  is  so 
reasonable  and  so  compelling. 


I 

A  PART  OF  LONDON 

A  BURNING   from  one  of  the  great  main 
roads   on  the   western   side   of   London 
brings  you  into  a  district  which  is  chiefly 
famous  for  containing  some  of  the  worst  streets, 
and  some  of  the  lowest  characters,  known  to  the 
police.     The  residents  of  this  neighbourhood  will 
point  out  to  you,  with  local  pride,  the  public- 
house  frequented  by  Milsom  and  Fowler  before 
their  terrible  murder  in  Muswell  Hill. 

You  would  never  suspect,  while  you  pass  down 
the  main  road,  the  existence  of  so  deplorable  a 
quarter.  On  either  side  of  you  are  some  of  the 
finest  private  houses  in  London;  the  traffic  of 
carriages  and  automobiles  is  incessant;  the  pave- 
ments are  vivid  and  animated  with  a  ceaseless 
procession  of  humanity;  and  everywhere  one  sees 
that  flagrant  exhibition  of  great  wealth  which 
almost  frightens  those  who  know  the  destitution 
of  the  poor.  Presently  the  private  houses  end, 
and  shops  begin.  In  the  midst  of  these  shops, 
which  are  not  of  the  first  class,  stands  a  station 
of  the  Underground  Railway.  Here  there  is 
noise,  smell,  and  shabbiness.  Motor  omnibuses, 
panting  and  vibrating,  are  drawn  up  at  the  kerb; 

29 


30  A  PART  OF  LONDON 

dirty  and  ragged  newspaper  lads  toss  for  pennies 
and  discuss  horse-races;  flower-girls,  with  the 
leather  straps  of  their  baskets  depressing  their 
shoulders,  exhibit  bright  flowers,  whose  contrast 
to  their  human  ugliness  is  complete;  under  the 
glass  porch  of  the  railway  station  there  is  always 
a  crowd  of  people  waiting  for  an  omnibus  or  a 
friend;  and  the  traffic  just  here  is  heavy,  noisy, 
and  continuous,  for  this  point  is  the  junction 
of  several  roads. 

The  pavement  is  strewn  with  dust,  dirt,  and 
refuse.  You  tread  upon  a  carpet  of  omnibus 
tickets,  scraps  of  newspaper,  cigarette  ends, 
matches,  tissue  paper  from  oranges,  hairpins,  and 
that  inevitable  chaff  of  the  London  streets,  com- 
posed of  broken  straw,  hay,  and  dust,  which  the 
lightest  wind  can  lift  and  blow  into  the  eyes  of 
pedestrians. 

Disagreeable  as  this  busy  corner  is,  and  that  in 
many  ways,  one  still  sees  on  every  side  women 
extravagantly  dressed,  men  of  fashion,  and  a 
tide  of  pleasure  traffic  which  suggests  nothing 
but  wealth,  ease,  and  festivity. 

But  with  one  step  you  are  out  of  this  cheerful 
vulgar  world. 

The  quarter  of  London  which  we  are  about  to 
penetrate  is  approached  from  the  thronging  pave- 
ments of  the  main  thoroughfare  by  a  road  even 
more  densely  packed.  It  is  the  market  street  of 
the  Miserables.  The  shops  are  faced  by  an  un- 


A  PART  OF  LONDON  31 

broken  line  of  stalls  at  the  kerb's  edge.  Between 
the  darkened  windows  of  the  shops  and  the  bril- 
liant stalls  of  the  gutter,  passes  a  swarm  of  very 
dirty  and  bruta^looking  people,  mostly  women, 
the  coppers  of  whose  greasy  purses,  acquired  by 
sin  and  crime,  are  eagerly  sought  by  the  hoarse- 
voiced  stall-holders. 

Apparently  the  tradesmen  who  pay  rent  and 
rates  have  nothing  to  do  but  stand  desolately  at 
their  shop-doors,  and  watch  the  thriving  business 
of  their  more  than  opposite  neighbours.  Among 
these  stalls,  where  you  can  buy  the  best  straw- 
berries for  three-halfpence  a  pound,  meat  and 
fish  for  a  few  pence,  corsets,  caps,  and  shoes  for 
next  to  nothing,  one  observes  with  some  aston- 
ishment cut  flowers  and  flowers  in  pots,  pictures, 
and  books.  Is  it  not  wonderful  that  the  very 
poor  buy  flowers,  and  books,  and  pictures?  It  is 
also  interesting  to  notice  that  while  the  customer 
stands  in  front  of  the  fruit  and  vegetable,  or 
fish  and  meat  stall,  making  a  bargain,  the  whole- 
sale merchant,  in  his  smart  pony  and  trap,  is  at 
the  back  waiting  to  do  business  with  the  retailer. 
The  commerce  of  the  great  city,  flowing  in  from 
all  the  seas  of  the  world,  has  these  strange  and 
numerous  backwaters. 

At  the  end  of  this  busy  road,  terminated  by 
several  public-houses,  one  comes  into  the  private 
quarter  of  the  neighbourhood.  Here  you  find 
almost  every  kind  of  house  except  the  best.  You 


32  A  PART  OF  LONDON 

find  the  large  and  comfortable  villa,  once  re- 
splendent with  the  new  paint  and  flower-boxes 
dear  to  the  prosperous  citizen,  and  the  straight 
line  of  neat,  low,  one-storied  houses  dear  to  the 
working  man.  All  are  now  shabby,  all  are  now 
stricken  with  misery.  The  large  villa  is  occupied 
by  some  more  or  less  respectable  workman,  who 
lives  in  the  basement  and  lets  off  the  other  floors. 
The  front  gardent  is  uncultivated.  The  pave- 
ments and  roadway  are  filled  with  shouting  chil- 
dren, who  chalk  wickets  on  garden  walls,  and  lines 
for  hop-scotch  on  the  pavement.  Many  of  these 
children,  the  great  majority,  are  wonderfully  well 
clothed,  beautifully  clean,  and  appear  far  more 
happy  and  vigorous  than  their  anaemic  contempo- 
raries of  Kensington  Gardens.  At  one  of  these 
houses,  rented  and  occupied  in  the  basement  by 
a  Salvationist,  as  many  as  seventy  beggars  have 
called  from  the  neighbouring  street  in  a  single 
week. 

One  turns  out  of  these  respectable  streets, 
where  the  children  are  playing  cricket,  cherry- 
bobs,  hop-scotch,  hoops,  and  cards,  and  suddenly 
finds  oneself  in  streets  miserable  and  evil  beyond 
description. 

These  are  streets  of  once  decent  two-storied 
villas,  now  lodging-houses.  The  very  atmosphere 
is  different.  One  is  conscious  first  of  dejection, 
then  of  some  hideous  and  abysmal  degradation. 
It  is  not  only  the  people  who  make  this  impres- 


A  PART  OF  LONDON  33 

sion  on  one's  mind,  but  the  houses  themselves. 
Dear  God,  the  very  houses  seem  accursed!  The 
bricks  are  crusted,  and  in  a  dull  fashion  shiny 
with  grime;  the  doors,  window-frames,  and  rail- 
ings are  dark  with  dirt  only  disturbed  by  fresh 
accretions;  the  flights  of  steps  leading  up  to  the 
front  doors,  under  their  foul  porches,  are  worn, 
broken,  and  greasy ;  the  doors  and  windows  in  the 
reeking  basements  have  been  smashed  up  in  nearly 
every  case  for  firewood — again  and  again  one  sees 
the  window-space  rough-boarded  by  some  land- 
lord anxious  to  preserve  his  property  from  the 
rain.  Here  and  there  a  rod  is  missing  from  the 
iron  railings — it  has  been  twisted  out  and  used 
as  a  weapon. 

In  these  streets,  on  a  summer  evening,  you  find 
the  flights  of  steps  occupied  by  the  lodgers,  and 
the  pavements  and  roadways  swarming  with  their 
children.  The  men  are  thieves,  begging-letter 
writers,  pickpockets,  bookmaker's  touts,  totters 
(rag  and  bone  men),  and  trouncers  (men  paid  by 
costermongers  to  shout  their  wares),  and  bullies. 
The  women  add  to  their  common  degradation — 
which  may  be  imagined — the  arts  of  the  pick- 
pocket, the  beggar,  the  shoplifter,  and  the 
bully. 

A  drunken  man,  who  wakes  up  to  find  himself 
in  one  of  these  houses,  is  given  a  few  old  rags 
wherein  to  make  his  return  home,  but  his  purse, 
his  watch,  his  pocket-book,  and  his  papers  are  not 


34  A  PART  OF  LONDON 

more  tenaciously  claimed  by  his  terrible  host  than 
every  shred  of  his  clothing. 

Sunday  morning  witnesses  the  strangest  sight 
in  these  streets.  The  lodgers  hold  a  bazaar. 
From  end  to  end  the  railings  are  hung  with  fusty 
and  almost  moving  rags,  the  refuse  of  the  week's 
picking  and  stealing,  which  no  pawnbroker  can 
be  brought  to  buy.  Neighbours,  barely  dressed, 
many  of  them  with  black  eyes,  bandaged  heads, 
and  broken  mouths,  turn  out  to  inspect  this 
frightful  collection  of  rags.  There  is  bargain- 
ing, buying,  and  exchanging.  Practically  naked 
children  look  on,  and  learn  the  tricks  of  the  trade. 

If  you  could  see  these  bareheaded  women,  with 
their  hanging  hair,  their  ferocious  eyes,  their 
brutal  mouths;  if  you  could  see  them  there,  half- 
dressed,  and  that  in  a  draggle-tailed  slovenliness 
incomparably  horrible;  and  if  you  could  hear  the 
appalling  language  loading  their  hoarse  voices, 
and  from  their  phrases  receive  into  your  mind 
some  impression  of  their  modes  of  thought,  you 
would  say  that  human  nature,  in  the  earliest  and 
most  barbarous  of  its  evolutionary  changes,  had 
never,  could  never,  have  been  like  this;  that  these 
people  are  moving  on  in  a  line  of  their  own,  that 
they  have  produced  something  definitely  non- 
human,  which  is  as  distinct  from  humanity  as 
the  anthropoid  ape.  Ruth,  or  even  Mary  of  Mag- 
dala,  at  the  beginning  of  the  line;  two  thousand 
years  of  progress;  and  then  these  corrupt  and 


A  PART  OF  LONDON  35 

mangy  things  at  the  end!  This  is  not  to  be  be- 
lieved. No;  they  do  not  belong  to  the  advancing 
line,  they  have  never  been  human.  For  the  hon- 
our of  humanity,  one  rejects  them. 

Concerning  the  men,  one  thing  only  need  be 
said.  Every  woman — the  oldest  hag  amongst 
them — challenged  me  with  a  hating  stare,  the 
boldness  and  effrontery  of  which  struck  me  more 
than  the  enmity;  every  man  seemed  to  be 
ashamed.  There  was  cunning  in  their  faces, 
there  was  every  expression  of  stealth  and  under- 
hand craft,  but  they  looked  and  lowered  their 
eyes.  I  was  more  impressed  by  this  apparent 
shame facedness  of  the  men  than  by  the  murderous 
hostility  of  the  women.  They  seemed  to  me 
"  consciously  wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy." 

But  more  than  by  anything  concerning  the  men 
and  women  of  this  neighbourhood,  one  is  im- 
pressed by  the  swarm  of  dreggy  children  playing 
their  poor  little  pavement  games  in  the  shadow 
of  these  lodging-houses.  Some — can  it  be  be- 
lieved?— are  decently  clothed  and  look  as  if  they 
are  sometimes  washed;  degraded  mothers,  sitting 
on  the  door-steps,  may  be  seen  proudly  exhibit- 
ing a  baby  to  their  friends,  cooing  over  it,  brush- 
ing its  poor  little  pale  cheeks  with  a  black  finger, 
suddenly  stooping  their  foul  faces  to  cover  the 
little  mouth  with  gay  and  laughing  kisses;  one 
of  my  first  experiences  in  these  streets  was  to 
hear  the  sudden  opening  of  a  top-story  window, 


36  A  PART  OF  LONDON 

to  see  a  frightful  woman  thrust  herself  half  out, 
and  to  hear  her  shout  to  a  toddling  child  to  come 
out  of  the  road  and  on  to  the  pavement — although 
not  a  cart  of  any  kind  was  in  view;  but  this  senti- 
mental affection  of  the  mother  does  not  last  very 
far  beyond  the  period  of  helpless  infancy.  The 
mass  of  these  children  above  five  or  six  years 
of  age  are  terribly  neglected.  I  have  never  seen 
children  more  dirty,  more  foully  clothed,  more 
dejected-looking.  In  all  cases,  to  use  a  phrase 
which  I  am  told  is  common  in  the  district,  these 
poor  children  are  "  lousy  as  a  cuckoo."  I  saw 
many  children  with  sores  and  boils;  I  also  saw 
some  children  whose  eyes  looked  out  at  me  from 
a  face  that  was  nothing  but  a  scab. 

A  mortuary  chapel  has  had  to  be  built  for  this 
neighbourhood.  The  rooms  of  the  houses  are  so 
crowded  that  directly  a  person  dies  the  body  must 
be  moved. 

Can  the  boys  of  these  dreadful  streets  grow 
into  anything  but  hooligans,  or  the  girls  do  any- 
thing but  earn  money  in  their  mothers'  fashion? 

Let  me  put  the  common  question,  but  with  real 
emphasis :  Would  we  allow  a  dog  to  live  in  these 
streets  ? 

Well,  into  these  streets  come  day  after  day, 
and  every  Sunday,  the  little  vigorous  corps  of  the 
Salvation  Army  stationed  in  this  quarter  of  Lon- 
don. The  adjutant  of  this  corps  some  years  ago 
was  a  beautiful  and  delicate  girl.  She  prayed  at 


A  PART  OF  LONDON  37 

the  bedside  of  dying  men  and  women  in  these 
lodging-houses;  she  taught  children  to  pray;  she 
went  into  public-houses  and  persuaded  the  violent 
blackguards  of  the  town  to  come  away;  she 
pleaded  with  the  most  desperate  women  at  street 
corners;  she  preached  in  the  open  streets  on  Sun- 
days; she  stood  guard  over  the  doors  of  men 
mad  for  drink  and  refused  to  let  them  out.* 

It  is  to  the  work  of  this  wonderful  woman — so 
gracious,  so  modest,  and  so  sweet — that  one  may 
trace  the  miracles  whose  histories  are  contained 
in  the  following  pages.  The  energy,  resolution, 
and  splendid  cheerfulness  of  the  present  corps — 
some  of  them  her  own  personal  converts — may 
likewise  be  traced  to  her  influence.  She  has  left 
in  these  foul  streets  the  fragrance  of  her  person- 
ality, a  fragrance  of  the  lilies  of  a  pure  soul. 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  an  old  gaol-bird,  showing 
me  the  photograph  of  this  woman;  "  if  anybody 
goes  to  heaven,  it'll  be  that  there  little  angel  of 
God." 

They  call  her  the  angel-adjutant. 

*  On  one  occasion  this  little  woman  was  walking  home 
through  evil  streets  after  midnight,  when  a  drunken  man 
asked  her  if  he  might  travel  by  her  side.  After  going 
some  way  the  man  said :  "  No,  you  aren't  afraid " ;  and 
then  he  mumbled  to  himself — "  Never  insults  the  likes  of 
you,  because  you  care  for  the  likes  of  us." 


n 

THE  PUNCHER 

WHAT  strikes  one  most  in  the  appearance 
of  this  short,  broad-shouldered,  red- 
haired  prize-fighter  is  the  extreme  re- 
finement of  his  features.  His  face  is  pale,  with 
that  almost  transparent  pallor  of  the  red-haired; 
the  expression  is  weary,  heavy,  and  careworn; 
the  features  are  small,  delicate,  and  regular;  one 
cannot  believe  that  the  light-coloured  eyes  have 
been  hammered,  and  the  small,  almost  girlish 
mouth  rattled  with  blows;  he  might  be  a  poet, 
the  last  role  one  would  ascribe  to  him  is  that  of 
the  ring. 

Of  all  the  men  in  this  little  group  of  the 
"  saved,"  he  is  the  saddest,  quietest,  and  most  re- 
strained. He  is  the  least  communicative,  too;  one 
has  to  get  his  history  more  from  others  than 
from  himself.  He  speaks  slowly,  unwillingly,  in 
a  voice  so  low  that  one  must  stretch  the  ear  to 
hear  him;  he  regards  one  with  the  look  of  a  soul 
that  does  not  expect  to  be  understood;  one  feels 
that  he  is  carrying  a  burden;  at  times  one  is 
tempted  to  wonder  whether  he  really  does  feel 
himself  to  be  consciously  right,  superior,  and 
happy. 


THE  PUNCHER  39 

I  account  for  this  sorrowfulness  of  manner, 
first,  by  the  natural  inexcitability  of  a  prize- 
fighter's temperament,  and  secondly,  by  the  pro- 
found depths  of  his  spiritual  nature,  which  keeps 
him  dissatisfied  with  the  results  of  his  work  for 
others. 

This  man,  whose  fame  as  a  prize-fighter  still 
renders  him  a  hero  of  the  first  magnitude  among 
his  neighbours,  has  been  the  means  of  saving 
some  of  the  worst  men  in  the  place.  Unpaid  by 
the  Salvation  Army,  and  devoting  every  hour  of 
his  spare  time  to  its  work,  the  Puncher  hungers 
to  save  by  the  score  and  by  the  hundred.  I  dis- 
covered in  his  nature  a  mothering  and  compas- 
sionate yearning  for  the  souls  of  unhappy  men, 
the  souls  of  men  estranging  themselves  from  God. 
One  perceives  that  every  man  so  conscious  of  a 
mission  for  saving,  and  so  conscious  of  the  appall- 
ing misery  of  London,  must  be  quiet,  and  silent, 
and  sorrowful. 

He  is  the  son  of  fairly  respectable  people  who 
came  gradually  down  and  down,  till  their  home 
was  a  loft  in  some  mews  patronized  by  cabmen. 
It  was  here  that  the  consciousness  of  the  Puncher 
received  its  first  stimulus  of  ambition.  There 
was  in  the  yard,  working  among  the  cabs  and 
horses,  a  young  man  pointed  out  by  the  denizens 
of  that  dirty  place  as  a  wonderful  hero.  He  had 
fought  someone  in  a  great  fight  on  Wormwood 
Scrubbs,  and  had  beaten  him  to  bits. 


40  THE  PUNCHER 

"  I  remember  distinctly,  just  as  if  it  was  yes- 
terday," said  the  reflective  Puncher,  speaking  in 
his  low  voice  and  looking  sadly  away  from  me; 
"  I  remember  distinctly  the  feeling  that  used  to 
come  over  me  whenever  I  looked  at  that  man.  I 
don't  remember  life  before  that.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  only  began  to  live  then.  And  this  was  the 
feeling.  I  wanted  to  be  like  that  man.  I  wanted 
to  fight.  I  wanted  people  to  point  at  me,  and 
say :  '  There's  a  fighting  man ! '  I  never  thought 
I  should  be  as  big  a  man  as  the  cock  of  our  yard; 
I  only  wanted  to  be  something  like  him;  some- 
thing as  near  to  him  as  strength  and  pluck  could 
carry  me.  But  the  day  came  " — he  added,  with 
a  touch  of  pride — "  when  I  stood  up  to  that  very 
man,  a  bit  of  a  boy,  I  was,  too — and  I  smothered 
him.  Yes;  I  smothered  him.  Ay,  and  after- 
wards many  a  man  bigger  than  him;  a  lot  bigger." 

While  he  was  a  boy,  still  stirred  by  these  heroic 
longings,  he  started  out  on  a  career  of  wildness 
and  daring.  He  had  all  those  virile,  headstrong, 
and  daring  qualities  which  in  such  a  country  as 
Canada  or  South  Africa  would  have  made  him  a 
useful  member  of  society,  but  which  in  London 
drove  him  into  crime.  His  first  escapade  was 
stealing  a  duck  from  Regent's  Park,  for  which 
offence  he  made  his  appearance  before  a  magis- 
trate. Then  one  day  he  stole  several  bundles 
of  cloth  from  a  shop,  sold  them  to  the  keeper  of 
a  marine  store,  and  once  more,  this  time  with  the 


THE  PUNCHER  41 

storekeeper  at  his  side,  stood  in  the  dock  of  a 
police  court.  The  storekeeper  went  to  prison,  the 
boy  was  fined. 

His  animal  spirits  got  him  into  trouble  at 
school.  There  was  no  master  able  to  influence 
his  character.  He  was  pronounced  utterly  un- 
manageable; his  temper  was  said  to  be  ungovern- 
able ;  the  authorities  said  that  he  endangered  the 
lives  of  other  boys  by  flinging  slates  about  as  if 
he  wanted  to  kill  someone.  He  was  turned  out 
of  nearly  every  school  in  Marylebone. 

He  was  still  a  boy  when  he  stole  a  bottle  of  rum 
from  a  grocer's  barrow,  shared  it  with  some  of 
his  mates,  and  made  himself  so  hopelessly  drunk 
that  he  fell  into  Regent's  Canal.  At  the  age  of 
seventeen  he  was  put  to  work.  Work,  it  was 
thought,  might  tame  his  wild  spirits.  Moreover, 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  earn  bread.  He  be- 
came a  porter  at  Smithfield  Meat  Market. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  began  seriously  to 
discipline  his  fighting  qualities.  He  trained  under 
a  man  whom  middle-aged  sportsmen  will  remem- 
ber, the  redoubtable  Nobby  Thorpe.  In  a  few 
months  he  was  a  hero,  and  a  man  of  substance. 

He  fought  sixteen  famous  fights  at  Wormwood 
Scrubbs,  and  won  them  all.  Then  came  a  chal- 
lenge to  meet  Eycott  at  the  Horse  and  Groom 
Tavern  in  Long  Acre.  In  those  days  certain  of 
the  public-houses  patronized  by  sporting  noble- 
men had  covered  yards  at  the  back  of  their 


42 

premises  for  the  purpose  of  prize-fights.  It  was 
in  one  of  these  places  that  the  young  porter  from 
Smithfield  Market  met  Eycott,  a  rare  champion. 
The  fight  went  through  fourteen  rounds,  and  the 
Puncher  was  declared  victor.  Eycott  objected  to 
this  decision.  The  Puncher  was  game,  and  they 
fought  again.  In  three  rounds  he  had  won  easily. 

This  victory  meant  not  only  money,  but  fame 
and  the  patronage  of  powerful  men.  The  porter 
from  Smithfield  became  the  flash  fighting-man, 
a  terrible  type  of  humanity.  He  swaggered  with 
lords  and  shook  his  fist  in  the  face  of  the  world. 
He  met  his  trainer  at  the  "  Horse  and  Groom," 
and  smothered  him  in  eight  rounds.  Then  came 
fights  with  Shields,  of  Marylebone;  Darkie  Bar- 
ton, of  Battersea;  Tom  Woolley,  of  Walsall;  and 
Bill  Baxter,  of  Shoreditch.  At  some  of  these 
fights  at  the  back  of  London  taverns,  there  were 
as  many  as  sixteen  members  of  the  House  of 
Lords,  in  addition  to  many  of  the  most  famous 
men  on  the  turf.  When  the  National  Sporting 
Club  was  organized,  the  Puncher  was  chosen  to 
open  it  in  a  great  fight,  still  remembered,  with 
Stanton  Abbott.  One  of  his  most  famous  en- 
counters was  with  Bill  Bell,  of  Hoxton;  they 
fought  with  bare  fists,  on  Lord  de  Clifford's 
estate  in  Devonshire. 

The  record  of  the  Puncher  is,  that  never  once 
was  he  beaten  by  his  own  weight. 

In  what  state  was  he  at  this  period  of  his  life? 


THE  PUNCHER  43 

Many  times  he  entered  the  ring  so  drunk  that  the 
referees  objected.  He  was  one  of  those  extraor- 
dinary men  who  can  saturate  their  bodies  with 
alcohol  and  perform  in  a  condition  of  complete 
drunkenness  physical  feats  requiring  the  coolest 
brain  and  the  deadliest  cunning.  It  was  the  very 
obstinacy  of  his  body  to  break  down  under  this 
terrible  strain  which  ultimately  plunged  him  into 
ruin. 

With  his  pockets  full  of  money  he  married, 
bought  a  laundry  business,  took  a  comfortable 
house,  kept  servants,  a  carriage,  and  a  pair  of 
horses,  went  to  race  meetings,  associated  as  a 
hero  with  the  rich  and  powerful,  and  lived  a  life 
of  racket  and  debauchery. 

His  body  held  out.  He  was  perfectly  strong, 
perfectly  fit.  The  truth  is  his  whole  system  was 
singing  with  the  joy  of  success.  His  brain  was 
on  fire.  He  felt  himself  capable  of  enormous 
things.  He  was  drunk  nearly  every  day  of  his 
life.  Nothing  mattered. 

When  he  began  to  feel  the  days  of  his  fight- 
ing drawing  to  a  close,  he  looked  about  him  for 
another  means  of  earning  money  quickly  and 
easily.  He  had  not  far  to  look.  He  started 
a  racing  business. 

His  name,  so  famous  to  the  sporting  world,  was 
advertised  as  "  A  guarantee  of  Good  Faith." 
Under  the  cloak  of  this  name  he  tricked  and 
cheated  in  a  hundred  cunning  and  disgraceful 


44  THE  PUNCHER 

ways.  He  became  the  member  of  a  gang.  A  tip 
was  given,  and  with  an  air  of  mystery  was 
worked  for  all  it  was  worth  by  the  touts  and  the 
prophets;  the  horse  tipped  was  a  certain  loser. 
The  men  who  gave  the  tip  profited  by  the  wagers 
made  confidently  by  their  friends  and  patrons. 
The  gang  did  well,  and  prospered.  The  Punch- 
er's guarantee  of  good  faith  sold  many  a  sports- 
man what  is  called  "  a  pup." 

But  suddenly  some  of  these  schemes,  advanc- 
ing in  boldness,  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
police.  The  Puncher  lost  at  a  stroke  his  fame, 
his  popularity,  his  good  name.  He  was  desig- 
nated a  low  blackguard,  and  fell  from  wealth  to 
poverty.  His  wife  and  her  relations,  who  had 
sunned  themselves  in  his  wealth,  became  scornful 
and  antagonistic.  The  Puncher  felt  this  treat- 
ment, and  it  made  him  worse.  Again  and  again 
he  went  to  prison;  each  time  he  came  out  it  was 
to  find  his  wife  and  children  sinking  deeper  into 
poverty,  and  showing  him  a  colder  and  a  dead- 
lier hatred.  The  old  glory  of  an  establishment 
and  horses  had  quite  departed.  His  experience 
of  Dives'  splendour  was  short-lived.  Destiny 
prepared  for  him  a  longer  experience  in  the  role 
of  Lazarus. 

In  one  single  year,  from  October,  1904,  to 
October,  1905,  he  was  seventeen  times  convicted, 
chiefly  for  drunkenness.  His  wife  now  left  him 
for  the  third  time,  determined  that  this  should 


THE  PUNCHER  45 

be  the  last.  She  had  done  with  the  wretch.  He 
was  alone  in  poverty  with  his  madness,  an  in- 
satiable passion  for  drink. 

He  told  me  something  of  the  way  in  which  he 
obtained  drink  during  this  destitute  period  of  his 
life.  He  used  to  intimidate  those  of  his  old  rac- 
ing companions  whom  it  was  perfectly  safe  to 
blackmail;  he  would  waylay  the  rich  and  power- 
ful, and  what  is  called  "  pitch  a  tale  " ;  when  abso- 
lutely penniless  and  mad  for  drink,  he  would 
march  into  any  crowded  public-houses  where  he 
was  known,  and  demand  it.  He  was  never  re- 
fused. 

These  fighting-men,  when  they  come  down  to 
poverty,  however  weak  and  broken  they  may  be, 
can  live  in  a  certain  fashion  on  the  terror  of  their 
past  strength.  They  do  not  cadge ;  they  demand. 
There  are  plenty  of  publicans  who  themselves 
give  drink  to  these  terrible  men — making  them 
first  promise  that  they  will  go  away — in  order 
to  prevent  a  disturbance,  possibly  a  fight. 

The  Puncher  lived  in  this  way.  Food  had  no 
attraction  for  him,  indeed,  he  had  a  feeling  of 
repulsion  for  anything  in  the  nature  of  solid  nour- 
ishment; everything  was  in  drink.  He  was  a 
blazing  mass  of  alcoholic  energy.  The  state  into 
which  he  had  sunk  can  only  be  understood  by  a 
medical  man.  His  body  was  supported  by  alco- 
hol and  nothing  else.  Try  and  imagine  the  con- 
dition of  his  brain. 


46  THE  PUNCHER 

He  lived  now  in  the  common  lodging-houses  of 
which  I  have  written — lodging-houses  occupied 
by  the  lowest,  most  desperate,  and  infinitely  the 
most  loathsome  creatures  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  He  found  no  horror  in  these  places.  He 
was  their  king.  No  one  dared  to  interfere  with 
him.  He  was  more  terrible  in  his  rags  and  mad- 
ness than  in  the  days  of  his  splendour.  Murder 
shone  in  his  eyes;  it  was  a  word  often  on  his  lips. 
If  he  hit  a  man,  that  man  fell  like  a  stone.  The 
Puncher,  fed  by  alcohol,  was  something  that 
spread  terror  through  the  district.  As  a  prize- 
fighter he  had  been  an  object  of  awe ;  now  he  was 
an  object  of  fear.  Then  he  had  been  a  man; 
now  he  was  a  devil. 

His  brain  was  active  and  cunning  in  one  direc- 
tion— the  obtaining  of  money  for  drink.  He  de- 
vised a  hundred  ways  for  raising  the  wind.  This 
outcast  in  his  rags  was  not  an  ordinary  cadging 
beggar;  he  was  a  man  who  had  known  wealth 
and  comfort;  a  pot  or  two  of  ale  could  not 
satisfy  the  fiery  longings  of  his  body.  He  wanted 
drink  always  and  for  ever.  He  wanted  to  sit  at 
his  ease,  and  call  for  drink  after  drink,  till  he 
slept  satisfied  for  a  little;  then  to  wake  and  find 
more  drink  waiting  for  him. 

One  of  his  tricks  brought  him  into  collision 
with  his  wife's  family.  He  managed  to  obtain  a 
few  pawn-tickets  for  forfeited  jewellery,  which 
was  to  be  sold  by  auction.  Many  of  the  publicans 


THE  PUNCHER  47 

in  low  houses  deal  in  these  tickets.  The  Puncher 
bethought  him  of  a  young  relative  of  his  wife's, 
who  had  a  good  situation  in  an  office.  Thither 
he  went,  and  showed  his  tickets. 

He  asked  for  a  loan  of  seven  shillings  and  six- 
pence on  one  of  these  tickets.  He  said  that  he 
knew  a  good  thing  for  Epsom  on  the  following 
day;  meant  to  walk  there  that  night  and  back 
the  horse  if  he  found  that  his  information  still 
held  good. 

The  money  was  given. 

It  was  a  great  sum  to  him  in  those  days,  but 
no  sooner  was  he  out  of  the  office  than  it  mad- 
dened him  by  its  meanness.  He  contrasted  his 
miserable  present  with  his  glorious  past.  He 
cursed  fate,  he  cursed  himself.  What  a  fool  he 
had  been  to  ask  so  little!  He  would  go  back 
and  get  more. 

But  first  he  must  drink. 

When  the  silver  had  gone,  he  went  back  and 
got  gold. 

He  was  what  is  called  "  drunk  to  the  world  " 
when  this  relation  of  his  wife — who  believed  him 
at  Epsom — came  upon  him  unexpectedly. 

The  news  reached  his  wife  and  children  that  he 
had  begun  to  prey  upon  decent  members  of  the 
family.  The  news  of  what  his  wife  was  saying 
of  him  reached  the  Puncher.  It  sank  deeply  into 
his  mind,  and  with  it  he  himself  sank  deeper  into 
the  mud. 


48  THE  PUNCHER 

One  day  the  Puncher's  eldest  son  sought  him 
out  in  his  low  haunts.  The  prize-fighter  loved 
this  boy  above  everything  on  earth,  except  drink. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  his  son  standing  before 
him  in  the  uniform  of  the  Salvation  Army. 

"  What  God's  foolery  is  this  ?  "  he  demanded, 
and  laughed. 

The  boy  pleaded  with  his  father.  He  spoke 
of  getting  back  from  misery  to  comfort,  of  a 
return  from  wretchedness  and  destitution  to  hap- 
piness and  home-love.  With  all  the  earnestness 
he  could  command,  with  all  the  anxiety  of  a  son 
to  save  his  father,  the  lad  pleaded  with  the 
Puncher. 

The  Puncher  laughed. 

He  had  one  form  of  expression  for  an  answer. 
In  his  rags,  shame,  and  frightful  beastliness,  he 
looked  proudly  at  his  son,  and  exclaimed,  "Me! 
— a  Salvationist! "  The  contempt  was  complete. 

That  phrase  haunted  him  and  delighted  him, 
long  after  the  son  had  retired  discomfited.  "  Me ! 
— a  Salvationist ! "  he  kept  on  repeating,  and 
every  time  he  laughed  with  a  rich  delight.  It 
was  the  first  joke  he  had  enjoyed  for  a  year. 

He  got  profoundly  drunk,  out  of  sheer  joy, 
and  was  in  trouble  with  the  police.  That  night 
he  slept  in  a  cell  at  the  police-court. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday. 

He  was  in  his  cell,  tortured  by  thirst,  mad  with 
the  rage  of  a  caged  beast,  cursing  God  for  this 


THE  PUNCHER  49 

long  Sunday  of  solitude  and  imprisonment,  when 
suddenly  he  heard  the  noise  of  a  band  through  the 
little  grating  at  the  top  of  his  cell. 

He  considered,  and  knew  it  to  be  the  band  of 
the  Salvation  Army. 

He  thought  of  his  son. 

As  he  sat  there,  dwelling  on  all  the  memories 
evoked  by  the  thought  of  his  boy,  he  compared 
his  wretchedness  and  despair  with  the  lad's 
brightness  and  goodness,  and  suddenly  melting 
into  tears,  vowed  that  he  would  at  least  make  an 
effort  to  live  a  decent  life. 

He  spent  that  Sunday  striving  to  prepare  him- 
self for  the  great  struggle.  He  endeavoured  to 
see  clearly  what  it  would  mean.  The  temptation 
to  drink,  he  knew  well,  would  continually  assail 
him.  The  distaste  for  steady  work,  which  had 
always  characterized  him,  would  take  long  to 
overcome.  It  would  be  a  hard  fight,  the  hardest 
he  had  ever  put  up,  but  it  was  worth  it.  Instead 
of  the  lodging-house,  a  home;  instead  of  the 
lowest  companionship,  the  love  of  wife  and  chil- 
dren; instead  of  the  prison,  security  and  peace! 
Surely,  this  was  worth  a  big  fight. 

On  the  following  morning  he  stood  in  the  dock. 
There  were  plenty  of  officials  to  tell  the  magis- 
trate the  past  record  of  this  prisoner.  Unfortu- 
nately there  was  no  one  to  tell  him  what  thoughts 
had  been  working  in  his  brain  all  that  long 
Sunday  in  the  terrible  solitude  of  the  cell.  The 


50  THE  PUNCHER 

sentence  was  a  month's  hard  labour.  No  doubt 
many  people  who  read  the  case  in  the  newspaper 
said  that  the  punishment  was  inadequate,  and 
called  the  Puncher  hard  names.  One  can  only 
judge  men  by  written  statements:  the  admission 
of  anything  else  is  impossible.  The  Puncher 
deserved  his  month. 

What  did  that  month's  imprisonment  do  for 
him  in  his  new  state  of  mind?  It  had  a  curious 
effect  upon  him.  It  roused  him  into  a  new  form 
of  mental  energy.  Braced,  vigorous,  and  re- 
stored to  something  of  his  old  glowing  joy  in  his 
strength,  he  looked  with  an  equal  loathing  both 
on  his  life  of  horror  and  on  his  intention  to  re- 
form it. 

His  soul  was  filled  with  a  vague  consciousness 
of  some  unattainable  superiority  which  he  had 
missed  by  his  past  life,  and  which  he  would  have 
even  further  degraded  by  his  notion  of  a  reforma- 
tion. Only  in  the  deplorable  condition  to  which 
drink  had  reduced  him,  could  he  have  entertained 
the  base  notion  of  creeping  back  to  his  wife  with 
a  plea  for  pity  and  forgiveness.  He  revolted  from 
himself.  How  low  must  he  have  fallen  to  con- 
template the  cowardice  of  repentance!  God  in 
Heaven,  to  what  further  depths  of  infamous  dis- 
gust might  he  descend,  if  it  were  possible  for 
him  a  few  hours  ago  to  think  of  religion ! 

Do  you  understand  this  condition  of  his  mind  ? 

He  was  conscious  of  some  unattainable  superi- 


THE  PUNCHER  51 

ority.  He  felt  himself  infinitely  above  his  degra- 
dation, and  infinitely  above  his  pious  son  in  the 
red  jersey.  He  was  conscious  of  a  great  man- 
hood, of  powers  capable  of  inexpressible  achieve- 
ment, of  some  immense  superiority  just  beyond 
his  reach,  and  of  which  the  world — God  curse 
it! — had  cheated  him. 

No;  not  unattainable. 

It  flashed  upon  him  that  it  was  attainable. 

He  could  attain  it  by  Death. 

This  man,  whose  pale  and  refined  face  tells  of  a 
profound  spiritual  warfare,  felt  himself  grow  to 
the  fulness  of  his  stature  in  the  realization  that 
death  would  save  him  from  himself. 

When  he  left  the  prison  his  mind  was  made  up. 

He  would  murder  his  wife,  and  end  his  life  by 
dying  gamely  on  the  scaffold. 

This  intention  was  perfectly  clear  and  definite 
in  his  mind.  It  was  a  fixed  idea.  So  powerful 
was  it,  of  such  extraordinary  power,  that  it  utterly 
destroyed  his  mania  for  drink.  Psychologists, 
interested  to  observe  how  a  religious  idea  will 
suddenly  uproot  a  long-established  habit,  will  be 
equally  interested  to  find  how  an  idea  of  hate 
destroyed  the  appetite  for  alcohol  in  the  body  of 
a  man  literally  saturated  with  the  poison.  The 
old-established  madness  was  exorcised  by  a  single 
idea  formed  in  the  mind  during  a  period  of  en- 
forced deprivation.  One  devil  went  out,  another 
entered. 


52  THE  PUNCHER 

The  Puncher  went  straight  from  the  prison  to 
some  of  his  old  sporting  acquaintances.  He  bor- 
rowed a  sovereign.  He  drank  with  his  friends 
till  he  was  drunk,  because  they  pressed  him,  but 
he  did  not  break  the  sovereign  for  drink.  With 
this  money  he  purchased  a  butcher's  knife  and  a 
hamper  of  food.  He  concealed  the  knife  on  his 
person,  and  carried  the  provisions  to  his  wife. 

The  woman,  who  had  suffered  terribly  at  his 
hands,  but  who  had  never  helped  him,  received 
his  advances  chillingly.  He  proposed  a  reconcili- 
ation, presenting  the  food  as  his  peace-offering. 
Then  he  suggested  a  visit  to  the  local  music-hall. 
Apparently  out  of  fear  of  his  fists,  she  accepted 
his  proposal.  She  accepted  the  proposal  of  a  man 
with  murder  in  his  heart,  the  means  of  murder 
on  his  person,  and  a  man  who  was  drunk. 

The  Puncher's  hatred  for  his  wife  was  deep- 
seated.  Her  personality  jarred  upon  him  at  every 
point.  On  her,  too,  centred  the  accumulated 
animosity  he  felt  for  her  relations,  who  had  done 
so  much,  he  considered,  to  break  up  his  home. 
To  murder  her  did  not  in  the  least  daunt  his  mind ; 
the  contemplation  of  the  act  did  not  unnerve  nor 
strike  him  as  horrible;  rather  it  seemed  to  him 
in  the  nature  of  achievement,  delightful  justice, 
getting  even  with  all  his  multitudinous  enemies 
at  one  stroke. 

They  went  out  from  the  house. 

As  they  passed  down  the  street,  a  door  opened, 


THE  PUNCHER  53 

and  a  Salvationist,  who  knew  the  Puncher  and 
knew  his  son,  came  out  and  joined  them.  He 
asked  if  husband  and  wife  were  coming  to  the 
meeting.  The  Puncher  said,  No.  The  Salva- 
tionist— himself  a  converted  drunkard  and  wife- 
beater — turned  and  looked  the  prize-fighter  in  the 
face.  He  told  him  simply  and  straightly,  looking 
at  him  as  they  went  down  the  street,  that  he  could 
never  be  happy  until  his  soul  was  at  peace.  He 
said  this  with  emphatic  meaning.  Then  he  said, 
"  God  has  got  a  better  life  for  you,  and  you  know 
it."  The  Puncher  struck  across  the  road  and 
entered  a  public-house.  His  wife  waited  at  the 
door  for  her  murderer. 

He  says  that  while  he  stood  drinking  in  the  bar, 
feeling  no  other  emotion  than  annoyance  at  the 
Salvationist's  interference,  suddenly  he  saw  a 
vision.  The  nature  of  this  vision  was  not  exalted. 
In  a  flash  he  saw  that  his  wife  was  murdered, 
just  as  he  had  planned  and  desired;  that  he  had 
died  game  on  the  scaffold,  just  as  he  had  deter- 
mined; the  thing  was  done;  vengeance  wreaked, 
apotheosis  attained — he  had  died  game:  he  was 
dead,  and  the  world  was  done  with.  All  this  in  a 
flash  of  consciousness,  and  with  it  the  despairing 
knowledge  that  he  was  still  not  at  rest.  Some- 
where in  the  universe,  disembodied  and  appall- 
ingly alone,  his  soul  was  unhappy.  He  knew 
that  he  was  dead;  he  knew  that  the  world  was 
done  with;  but  he  was  conscious,  he  was  unhappy. 


54  THE  PUNCHER 

This  was  the  vision.  With  it  he  saw  the  world 
pointing  at  his  son,  and  saying,  "  That's  young 

,  whose  father  was  hanged  for  murdering 

his  mother." 

A  wave  of  shame  swept  over  him;  he  came  out 
of  his  vision  with  this  sense  of  horror  and  shame 
drenching  his  thought.  For  the  first  time  in  all 
his  life  he  was  stunned  by  realization  of  his  degra- 
dation and  infamy.  He  knew  himself. 

How  the  vision  came  may  be  easily  explained 
by  subconscious  mentation.  He  had  long  medi- 
tated the  crime  of  murdering  his  wife,  he  had  long 
brooded  upon  the  glory  of  dying  game;  an  explo- 
sion of  nervous  energy  presented  him,  even  as  it 
presented  Macbeth,  with  anticipatory  realization 
of  his  thought.  In  other  words,  we  know  all 
about  the  mechanism  of  the  piano;  but,  the  musi- 
cian at  the  keyboard?  How  did  shame  come  to 
this  man  utterly  hardened  and  depraved?  And 
what,  in  the  language  of  psychology,  is  shame? 
How  does  grey  matter  become  ashamed  of  itself? 
How  do  the  wires  of  the  piano  become  aware  of 
the  feelings  of  the  sonata?  Moreover,  there  is 
this  to  be  accounted  for:  the  immediate  effect  of 
the  vision. 

That  effect  was  "  conversion,"  in  other  words, 
a  re-creation  of  the  man's  entire  and  several  fields 
of  consciousness.  And,  he  was  drunk  at  the  time. 

Drunk  as  he  was,  he  went  straight  out  from  the 
public-house  to  the  hall  where  the  Salvation  Army 


THE  PUNCHER  55 

was  holding  its  meeting.  His  wife  went  with 
him.  He  said  to  her,  "  I'm  going  to  join  the 
Army."  At  the  end  of  the  meeting  he  rose  from 
his  seat,  went  to  the  penitent's  form,  bowed  him- 
self there,  and  like  the  man  in  the  parable  cried 
out  that  God  would  be  merciful  to  him,  a  sinner. 
His  wife  knelt  at  his  side. 

He  says  that  it  is  impossible  to  describe  his 
sensations.  The  past  dropped  clear  away  from 
him.  An  immense  weight  lifted  from  his  brain. 
He  felt  light  as  air.  He  felt  clean.  He  felt 
happy.  All  the  ancient  words  used  to  symbolize 
the  spiritual  experience  of  instant  and  complete 
regeneration  may  be  employed  to  describe  his 
feelings,  but  they  all  fail  to  convey  with  satis- 
faction to  himself  the  immediate  and  delicious 
joy  which  ravished  his  consciousness.  He  cannot 
say  what  it  was.  All  he  knows  is  that  there,  at 
the  penitent  form,  he  was  dismantled  of  old  hor- 
ror and  clothed  afresh  in  newness  and  joy. 

Whatever  the  effect  upon  himself,  the  effect 
of  this  conversion  on  the  neighbourhood  was 
amazing.  The  news  of  it  spread  to  every  foul 
court  and  alley,  to  every  beerhouse  and  gin-palace, 
to  every  coster's  barrow  and  street  corner,  to 
every  common  lodging-house  and  cellar  in  all  that 
quarter  of  the  town.  There  is  no  hero  to  these 
people  like  a  prize-fighter;  let  him  come  down, 
as  the  Puncher  had  come  down,  to  rags,  prison, 
and  the  lodging-house — still,  trailing  clouds  of 


56  THE  PUNCHER 

glory  does  he  come,  and  the  rest  worship  their  idol 
even  when  he  lies  in  the  gutter. 

When  the  Sunday  came  and  this  great  hero 
marched  out  of  barracks  with  the  band  and  the 
banners  and  the  lasses,  there  were  thousands  to 
witness  the  sight — a  dense  mass  of  poverty- 
stricken  London,  dazed  into  wonderment  by  a 
prize-fighter's  soul.  "  The  Puncher's  got  reli- 
gion ! "  was  the  whispered  amazement,  and  some 
wondered  whether  he  had  got  it  bad  enough  to 
last,  or  whether  he  would  soon  get  over  it  and 
be  himself  again.  Little  boys  swelled  the  multi- 
tude, gazing  at  the  prize-fighter  who  had  got  re- 
ligion. 

He  had  got  it  badly. 

His  home  became  comfortable  and  happy.  He 
appeared  at  all  the  meetings.  No  desire  for  to- 
bacco or  drink  disturbed  his  peace  or  threatened 
his  holiness.  The  neighbourhood  saw  this  great 
fighter  going  every  night  to  the  Army  Hall,  and 
marching  every  Sunday  to  the  meetings  in  the 
open  air. 

Then  they  saw  something  else. 

The  wonder  of  the  Puncher  is  what  Salvation- 
ists call  his  "  love  for  souls."  This  is  a  phrase 
which  means  the  intense  and  concentrated  com- 
passion for  the  unhappiness  of  others  which  visits 
a  man  who  has  discovered  the  only  means  of  ob- 
taining happiness.  The  Puncher  was  not  content 
with  the  joy  of  having  his  own  soul  saved;  he 


THE  PUNCHER  67 

wanted  to  save  others.  He  did  not  move  away 
from  the  neighbourhood  which  had  witnessed  his 
shame,  but  lived  there  the  life  of  a  missionary. 
Every  hour  of  his  spare  time,  every  shilling  he 
could  spare  from  his  home,  was  given  to  saving 
men  with  whom  he  had  companied  in  every  con- 
ceivable baseness  and  misery.  This  man,  as  other 
narratives  will  show,  has  been  the  means  of  sav- 
ing men  apparently  the  most  hopeless.  To  this 
day,  working  hard  for  his  living,  and  with  trag- 
edy deepening  in  his  life,  he  is  still  to  be  found 
in  that  bad  quarter  of  London,  spending  his  time 
and  his  money  in  this  work  of  rescuing  the  lost. 
I  never  met  a  quieter  soul  so  set  upon  this  bitter 
and  despairing  task  of  rescue. 

And  hear  something  of  what  he  has  gone 
through. 

'After  his  conversion,  and  when  it  seemed  quite 
certain  that  he  would  never  revert,  a  lady  set  up 
the  Puncher  and  two  other  men  with  a  pony  and 
cart,  that  they  might  become  travelling  green- 
grocers. The  business  prospered.  The  prize- 
fighter and  ex-dandy  was  quite  happy  in  his  work. 
Money  came  sufficiently  for  the  needs  of  his  home. 
The  work  was  hard  and  incessant,  but  it  was 
interesting. 

Then  his  wife  gradually  cooled  towards  the 
Army.  It  was  not  respectable  enough  for  her 
relations.  She  did  not  gird  at  her  husband,  but 
she  withheld  sympathy.  Probably  she  wished 


58  THE  PUNCHER 

him  to  remain  a  Salvationist,  if  that  meant  her 
own  immunity  from  his  chastisement;  but  she 
would  have  been  better  pleased,  from  a  social 
point  of  view,  if  the  Puncher  had  kept  his  moral- 
ity and  sloughed  his  religion. 

Almost  more  difficult  to  bear,  the  son  whom  he 
loved  so  greatly — the  boy  who  had  done  so  much 
to  save  him — resigned  from  the  Army  and  gave 
his  thoughts  to  other  things.  He  did  not  become 
bad  or  vicious,  or  even  indifferent  to  religion, 
but  the  old  enthusiasm,  the  old  energy  which  alone 
can  keep  a  mind  to  this  exacting  form  of  service, 
vanished.  The  Puncher  was  the  only  Salvation- 
ist left  in  his  home. 

One  bitter  winter's  day  he  was  on  his  rounds 
with  the  pony-cart  in  North  London.  The  third 
partner  in  the  venture  had  gone  out  of  the  busi- 
ness. The  Puncher  was  on  this  round  with  the 
other  man,  his  only  partner.  "  Puncher,"  said 
this  man,  pulling  up  at  a  public-house,  "  I'm  go- 
ing to  have  a  nip  of  whisky;  it's  perishing  cold. 
You  come  in  too,  and  have  a  glass  of  port — port's 
teetotaller's  drink." 

The  Puncher  said,  No.  The  partner  wheedled 
and  coaxed.  It  was  cold. 

"  Port's  teetotaller's  drink,"  said  the  partner. 
"  One  glass  can't  hurt  a  man  like  you;  come  on, 
I'll  stand  it." 

The  Puncher  fell.  He  was  miserable,  lonely, 
and  unhappy  in  his  home.  It  was  cold.  His 


THE  PUNCHER  59 

partner  stood  in  the  tavern,  calling  him  in.  The 
Puncher  followed  him.  He  thinks  that  the  wine 
was  drugged.  He  dropped  like  a  shot  man  on  the 
floor  of  the  public-house,  and  when  they  picked 
him  up,  and  got  him  round,  his  partner  had  dis- 
appeared with  the  pony  and  trap.  Such  is  one 
aspect  of  the  life  of  London.  In  the  City  the 
same  kind  of  cleverness  is  practised  in  other  ways. 
The  Puncher  was  still  drunk  when  he  arrived 
back  in  his  own  neighbourhood.  People  seeing 
him  stagger  through  the  streets  did  not  laugh  nor 
mock ;  they  were  genuinely  sorry — even  the  worst 
of  them — to  see  this  great-hearted  man  fallen  back 
into  ruin.  A  kind  of  silence  held  the  crowded 
streets  as  the  Puncher  with  sunk  head  and  giving 
legs  shambled  to  his  home,  a  terrible  look  in  his 
eyes  and  jaws. 

Then  the  tongues  wagged.  In  a  few  minutes 
all  the  neighbourhood  knew  that  the  Puncher's 
conversion  had  not  lasted.  People  talked  of  noth- 
ing else.  They  wondered  if  he  had  already 
wrecked  his  home  and  smashed  his  wife.  Some 
of  them  slouched  round  to  his  street  and 
hung  about  in  front  of  his  house.  A  crowd 
assembled. 

The  door  opened.  The  Puncher  came  out.  He 
had  taken  off  his  coat,  and  had  put  on  the  red 
jersey.  He  walked  straight  to  the  Army  Hall, 
went  to  the  penitent  form,  and  prayed. 

That   was   a   brave   thing   to   do.      But   the 


60  THE  PUNCHER 

Puncher  does  not  see  the  courage  of  it.  One 
thought  stuck  in  his  mind  when  he  came  to  him- 
self, drunk,  ruined,  and  alone  in  that  public-house 
in  the  North  of  London :  the  thought  that  he  would 
be  safe  if  he  could  get  into  his  uniform.  It  was 
not  the  honour  of  the  regiment  he  thought  about, 
but  the  covering  protection  of  the  Flag.  He 
went  to  his  uniform  for  protection.  This  is  a 
true  story,  and  it  seems  to  me  there  is  nothing 
more  remarkable  in  the  narrative  than  the  poor 
beaten  fellow's  fixed  idea  that  if  only  he  could 
get  into  his  jersey  he  would  be  safe. 

From  that  day  he  has  never  fallen.  The 
shadows  have  deepened  for  him.  His  wife's  lack 
of  sympathy  is  an  increasing  distress  and  discom- 
fort in  the  home.  The  solitude  of  his  soul  there 
is  complete.  His  children  do  not  care  about  their 
father's  religion.  He  has  to  earn  his  living  among 
men  who  are  not  Salvationists,  and  who  do  not 
show  him  sympathy.  But  in  spite  of  this  the 
Puncher  remains  in  the  neighbourhood  of  which 
I  am  writing,  and  he  is  there  perhaps  the  greatest 
force  for  personal  religion  among  the  sad,  the 
sorrowful,  the  broken,  and  the  "  lost  "  who  cram 
its  shabby  streets. 

"  The  Puncher,"  someone  said  to  me,  "  has 
spent  hours  and  pounds  trying  to  reach  his  old 
companions.  He  is  chiefly  unhappy  because  he 
has  not  saved  more  than  he  has.  He  seems  to 
think  of  nothing  else.  He's  always  talking  about 


THE  PUNCHER  61 

it,  in  his  quiet,  low  voice,  and  with  that  queer 
straining  look  of  longing  in  his  sad  eyes." 

He  receives  no  pay  from  the  Army.  He  is  not 
an  officer,  he  is  a  soldier — a  volunteer.  The  time 
he  gives  to  the  work  is  the  time  left  over  from  an 
arduous  day  of  earning  daily  bread. 

When  I  suggested  to  the  adjutant  *  mentioned 
in  the  preface,  that  it  might  be  well  for  the  Army 
to  deliver  this  remarkable  man  from  the  task  of 
earning  his  living,  and  set  him  free  to  "  testify  " 
all  over  the  kingdom,  she  replied: 

"  He  testifies  every  now  and  then  at  great 
meetings,  and  wherever  his  name  appears  we  get 
vast  audiences,  for  he  is  known  all  over  England, 
especially  in  places  where  there  are  race-courses. 
But  the  Army  does  not  encourage  this  idea,  be- 
cause a  man  who  continually  narrates  the  story 
of  his  evil  deeds  is  apt  to  glory  in  them;  that  is  a 
great  danger,  and  it  is  not  conversion.  You  see, 
we  do  not  stop  at  converting  people  from  crime 
and  wickedness,  we  endeavour  to  lead  them  on  to 
the  heights  of  character.  This  man  is  quite  lovely 
in  his  mind.  His  wistfulness  for  the  souls  of 
others  is  almost  feminine;  it  is  an  intense  yearn- 
ing. And  the  discipline  of  earning  his  daily 
bread  is  far  better  for  him  than  the  excitement 
of  continually  narrating  the  story  of  the  past, 

*  An  officer  devoting  all  his  or  her  time  to  the  Army's 
work,  and  in  this  case  in  charge  of  a  local  organisation 
called  a  corps ;  the  corps  comprising  a  number  of  soldiers. 


62  THE  PUNCHER 

from  which  he  is  spiritually  moving  every  day  of 
his  brave  life.  I  think  we  are  wise  in  this.  To 
be  converted  is  only  a  new  beginning  of  some- 
thing greater." 

Does  not  this  remark  of  the  little  adjutant 
give  one  fresh  ideas  of  the  Salvation  Army  as  a 
spiritual  force? 


Ill 

A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

HOW  does  science  account  for  this  man ? 
His  father  was  the  best  type  of  Eng- 
lish soldier,  a  man  with  discipline  in  the 
blood,  full  of  self-respect,  proud  of  obedience, 
brave,  upright,  and  orderly. 

He  had  soldiered  in  the  I3th  Light  Dragoons, 
now  the  I3th  Hussars,  and  rode  with  his  regiment 
on  the  right  of  the  line  at  Balaclava.  He  was  one 
of  the  six  hundred  who  charged  the  Russian  guns 
with  sabres;  he  was  one  of  the  remnant  that  rode 
back  out  of  the  jaws  of  death,  out  of  the  mouth 
of  hell.  Steadier  and  better  trooper  of  horse 
never  served  his  country.  The  man  was  clothed 
with  some  mysterious  dignity;  an  aloofness  of 
self-respect  which  was  pride  in  its  highest  mani- 
festation showed  in  his  manner,  his  appearance, 
and  his  speech.  He  held  himself  proudly,  was 
inexorable  in  his  duty,  and  only  forsook  taciturn- 
ity in  unwilling  monosyllables.  He  was  what 
Carlyle  would  have  called,  a  great,  silent,  inartic- 
ulate soul. 

He  left  the  army  a  hero,  and  became  a  police- 
man. 

He  was  the  Police  Inspector  of  Charing  Cross 
Station. 

68 


64  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

The  home  was  in  Deptford.  It  was  comfort- 
able, respectable,  and  religious.  The  children 
were  sent  in  best  clothes  to  Sunday-school,  and 
were  apprenticed  to  the  Band  of  Hope.  On 
Sunday  evenings  company  was  received.  The 
entertainment  was  religious.  They  sang  sacred 
songs  and  hymns;  they  discussed  life  from  the 
religious  standpoint.  Whisky  and  water  helped 
this  flow  of  soul,  the  men  smoked  cigars  in  a 
deliberate  and  philosophical  fashion.  Many 
great  problems  were  left  unsolved  at  these  dis- 
cussions. 

There  were  several  quite  young  children  in  this 
household  when  the  head  died.  The  hero  of  Bal- 
aclava left  behind  him,  in  addition  to  his  medals 
and  the  record  of  a  useful  life,  a  wife  and  family 
who  needed  bread  for  their  existence.  The  bur- 
den of  this  responsibility  fell  upon  the  wife.  She 
went  out  to  work,  and  became  a  cloak-room  at- 
tendant at  Charing  Cross  Station.  She  is  there 
to  this  day. 

The  long  life  of  this  woman's  devotion  is  typ- 
ical of  London.  The  number  of  poor  women 
who  go  out  to  work  for  the  sake  of  their  children, 
who  toil  from  early  morning  to  late  at  night,  and 
who  manage,  in  spite  of  this,  to  keep  the  home 
respectable  and  cheerful,  to  endear  themselves  to 
their  children  and  permanently  to  influence  the 
characters  of  those  children  towards  honesty, 
uprightness,  and  self-respect,  is  legion.  Into 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  65 

whatever  poor  parish  of  the  town  you  may  enter, 
the  clergyman,  the  doctor,  the  district  nurse,  or 
the  local  Salvationist  will  tell  you  that  the  best 
of  the  inhabitants  are  working  mothers,  whose 
lives  are  one  incessant  struggle  for  the  mere  neces- 
sities of  existence. 

With  such  blood  in  his  veins,  with  such  mem- 
ories in  his  young  heart,  with  such  noble  and 
sacred  influences  on  his  soul,  the  hero  of  this 
story  left  home  at  the  age  of  fourteen  to  enlist 
in  a  line  regiment,  of  which  an  elder  brother  was 
one  of  the  colour-sergeants. 

The  life  of  a  boy  in  the  army  at  that  time,  par- 
ticularly a  boy  in  the  band,  was  hard  and  cruel. 
It  took  either  a  genius  to  dodge  its  hardships,  or 
a  giant  to  withstand  its  cruelties.  The  private 
soldier  appeared  to  take  a  savage  pleasure  in 
hardening  the  heart  of  a  boy;  it  was  the  tyranny 
of  a  lad  for  a  cat;  there  was  in  it  the  element  of 
sport. 

It  seemed  to  my  hero,  from  the  outset,  that  he 
must  fight  for  his  hand.  He  was  strong,  proud, 
high-spirited.  Moreover,  his  brother  was  a  col- 
our-sergeant. In  a  few  weeks  he  was  swear- 
ing, smoking,  drinking,  and  fighting — like  a 
man. 

At  fifteen  he  went  to  Ireland;  at  sixteen  he  was 
in  India. 

In  India  he  was  as  good  as  any  man  in  the 
regiment. 


66  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

What  does  this  mean?  It  means  that  he  was 
smart  in  his  appearance,  knew  his  drills,  and 
could  appear  on  parade  full  of  beer  without  de- 
tection. He  was  famous  for  this  ability,  and  he 
was  proud  of  it.  Much  of  the  talk  in  a  canteen 
concerns  the  capacity  of  a  man  to  carry  liquor  on 
steady  legs.  It  is  a  useful  topic  of  conversation. 
It  makes  for  pleasurable  disputation,  it  leads  to 
wagers,  it  creates  exciting  contests.  Who  can 
drink  the  most,  Jack  or  Joe,  A  company  or  B, 
ours  or  the  Shropshires  ?  A  man  who  can  stand 
up  to  beer  is  a  hero  who  will  certainly  stand  up 
to  shot  and  shell.  Who  fears  one  barrel  will 
fear  two.  The  fanatic  says  that  there  is  no  barrel 
without  an  enemy.  But  the  soldier  stands  to  his 
gun  and  his  beer,  able  to  pot  in  two  senses  of 
the  phrase — a  man. 

But  there  was  something  in  the  mind  of  my 
hero  which  was  not  satisfied  by  beer.  He  does 
not  know  what  it  was.  It  manifested  itself,  this 
unrest,  in  several  ways.  For  instance,  he  would 
go  to  the  library  and  pore  over  Queen's  Regula- 
tions. He  wanted  to  pick  a  quarrel.  He  was  a 
barrack-room  lawyer.  He  made  sure  of  his 
ground,  and  then  "  raised  hell."  He  claimed  his 
rights  in  the  face  of  colour-sergeant,  company 
officer,  adjutant,  and  colonel.  The  trouble  was, 
for  these  authorities,  that  the  lawyer  in  this  case 
was  perhaps  the  best  soldier  in  the  regiment — 
exceedingly  smart,  handsome,  energetic,  and  keen. 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  67 

Furthermore,  he  was  a  marksman — the  company 
shot. 

But  Queen's  Regulations  did  not  satisfy  him 
any  more  than  success  at  the  butts,  or  smartness 
on  parade,  or  beer.  There  was  still  something 
wanting.  He  was  sufficiently  educated  to  feel 
dissatisfied  with  the  scope  of  his  existence;  there 
was  that  in  his  nature  which  made  him  an  in- 
quirer, a  barrack-room  lawyer  considering  the 
affairs  of  the  universe — a  man  whose  grudge  was 
not  against  the  service,  but  against  life.  Some- 
where in  the  cosmos  there  was  a  person  or  a 
thing  he  desired  to  meet  face  to  face;  if  necessary 
with  naked  fists. 

At  Conoor  he  fell  in  with  a  corps  of  the  Salva- 
tion Army.  The  universe  seemed  at  last  to  have 
answered  his  inquiries.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
call.  He  used  to  go  down  to  the  services  and 
prayer-meetings,  always  in  a  state  of  liquor,  some- 
times very  drunk,  and  throw  out  those  of  the 
worshippers  who  failed  to  reach  the  standard  of 
that  which  he  deemed  a  seemly  religious  propri- 
ety. It  was  a  curious  condition  of  mind.  He 
felt  himself  to  be  protecting  the  weak,  champion- 
ing the  derided,  reproving  the  mockers.  He  ap- 
proved in  a  dull  way  the  idea  of  God,  and  the 
thought  of  heaven  and  hell,  the  religious  thesis  of 
a  struggle  between  good  and  evil.  These  great 
thoughts  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  existence. 
They  gave  his  soul  a  little  more  room  in  which  to 


68  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

turn  round,  a  little  better  air  to  breathe.  So  he 
stood  up  for  the  Salvation  Army  in  barrack-room 
and  canteen,  pot  in  hand;  he  rattled  those  who 
derided  it  with  a  crackle  of  oaths;  he  was  ready 
to  fight  for  it. 

The  mystery  of  this  state  of  mind  can  be  easily 
explained.  There  is  no  subject  in  the  world  like 
religion  for  argument,  controversy,  and  dispute. 
The  Bishop  of  London  told  me  that  on  one  occa- 
sion in  Victoria  Park,  when  he  was  waiting  to 
answer  an  atheist  lecturer,  a  little  greasy-haired 
man  suddenly  planted  a  box  on  the  ground, 
mounted  it,  and  exclaimed,  with  a  pathetic  anxi- 
ety to  be  heard,  "  Ladies  and  gents,  'alf  a  mo' 
about  that  ole  'umbug  General  Booth ! "  It  is 
religion  which  draws  the  crowd  of  listeners  to  the 
parks;  it  is  religion  which  makes  every  man  an 
orator.  On  religion  such  born  barrack-room 
lawyers  as  Charles  Bradlaugh  and  the  hero  of 
this  story  will  always  love  to  hear  themselves 
speak  till  the  lights  go  out  and  the  silence 
falls. 

Because  he  wanted  to  be  in  controversy  with  his 
fellows,  because  he  wanted  to  argue  and  orate  and 
show  his  superior  knowledge,  the  Tight  Handful 
became  a  champion  of  the  Salvation  Army.  If 
all  the  regiment  had  been  pious  Christians,  it  is 
very  probable  that  his  fists  and  his  oratory  would 
have  been  at  the  service  of  atheism.  But  he  had 
found  a  minority.  This  was  enough.  He  put 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  69 

himself  face  to  face  with  the  majority,  fists  raised, 
his  brain  singing  with  beer. 

He  left  India  a  very  much  worse  man  than  he 
arrived.  He  was  made  a  corporal,  well  on  his 
way  to  lance-sergeant,  and  the  highest  warrant 
rank  might  easily  have  been  his.  But  he  had 
shipped  a  devil.  His  love  of  controversy  had 
opened  a  door;  one  of  the  worst  devils  known 
to  the  student  of  human  nature  had  entered;  it 
was  the  devil  of  rage.  Men  truly  said  of  him, 
"  He  has  got  the  devil  of  a  temper." 

This  story  is  really  a  study  in  temper.  The 
part  played  by  drink  is  quite  subsidiary.  The 
interest  lies  in  the  wild  fury  which  grew  gradually 
in  the  character  of  this  young  soldier  till  it  be- 
came a  demon  uncontrollable,  ungovernable — his 
master. 

To  this  day  his  prominent  cheek-bones  have 
that  glaze,  and  his  eyes  that  shining  fire,  which 
are  so  often  the  outward  shows  of  a  temper  quick 
to  take  flame. 

On  the  night  of  his  arrival  in  England,  he  went 
out  of  barracks  and  "  forgot  to  return  "  till  next 
morning.  He  was  made  a  prisoner. 

This  roused  the  fury  of  his  temper.  It  was  his 
first  crime.  It  meant  the  ruin  of  his  career.  He 
went  before  the  colonel,  ready  to  fight  for  his 
life.  But  he  was  too  good  a  soldier  to  be  pun- 
ished. He  went  out  from  the  orderly-room  with 
the  shame  of  a  reprimand  burning  in  his  blood. 


70  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

Three  months  afterwards  he  was  back  again, 
charged  with  striking  the  police.  This  time  a 
serious  crime.  He  was  reduced  to  the  ranks. 

Ruin! 

Consider  him — quite  a  young  man,  well  above 
the  standard  of  his  fellows  in  education,  one  of 
the  most  efficient  soldiers  in  the  regiment,  a  prize 
marksman,  in  appearance  handsome,  proud,  and 
scornful,  a  man  physically  as  perfect  as  any  in  the 
British  Army — slim,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  deep- 
chested,  long-armed,  with  true  vision,  and  a 
courage  that  feared  nothing — one  who  by  the 
exercise  of  a  little  ordinary  common  sense  might 
have  risen  to  warrant  rank  and  in  a  few  years 
retired  from  the  service  with  a  comfortable  pen- 
sion ;  such  he  was,  and  he  found  his  career  ruined 
by  temper  in  the  very  dawn  of  his  manhood. 
Everything  lost.  The  whole  future  closed  against 
him. 

The  regiment  tried  to  do  for  him  all  that  was 
possible.  He  became  silverman  in  the  officers' 
mess,  an  officer's  servant,  even  a  policeman;  but 
every  job  thus  found  for  him  to  mitigate  the  bit- 
terness of  reduction  to  the  ranks,  he  threw  away, 
one  after  another,  in  scornful  bouts  of  headlong 
drunkenness. 

Nothing  mattered  to  him  now.  He  had  thrown 
away  his  chances.  He  kicked  forethought  out  of 
his  path,  and  went  plunging  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  abyss. 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  71 

Twice  he  came  near  to  murder. 

In  Manchester  he  found  himself  mixed  up  in 
some  sordid  brawl  between  sailors  and  a  public 
woman.  Such  a  contempt  as  Shakespeare  had 
for  these  creatures  when  they  unpack  their  hearts, 
took  sudden  possession  of  The  Handful.  The 
street  lamp  fell  upon  her  screeching  face;  her 
hoarse  voice  loaded  with  loathsome  words  struck 
rage  out  of  the  soldier's  soul — he  sprang  upon  her, 
seized  her  by  the  throat,  bore  her  to  the  ground, 
and  was  throttling  the  poor  life  out  of  her  body, 
when  an  old  tramp  interfered,  a  man  who  had 
served  in  The  Handful's  regiment  many  years 
before,  and  whose  appeal  to  the  honour  of  the 
regiment — this  ragged  old  tramp's  appeal  to  the 
honour  of  the  regiment ! — broke  through  the  rage 
in  the  soldier's  brain,  and  just  saved  him  from 
murder. 

Later,  at  Aldershot,  he  discovered  by  an  acci- 
dent that  a  girl  with  whom  he  was  accustomed 
to  associate  had  been  seen  walking  with  a  man  of 
another  regiment.  This  time,  not  in  hot  blood, 
he  deliberately  plotted  murder.  He  met  the 
girl,  walked  with  her,  taxed  her  with  infidelity, 
and  then  set  upon  her.  He  left  her  dying  on 
the  lawn,  and  walked  back  to  barracks  to  await 
arrest  for  murder.  He  could  hardly  believe 
it  when  he  learned  that  the  girl  was  still 
living. 

Soon  after  this  he  left  the  service.     His  colonel 


72  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

appealed  to  him,  argued  with  him,  to  stay  on  and 
earn  a  pension.  He  not  only  resisted  these  ap- 
peals, but  suddenly  brought  a  charge  against  the 
regiment  concerning  his  kit.  A  few  days  before 
he  had  been  served  out  with  new  things.  These 
things  had  been  taken  away  by  the  colour-ser- 
geant. According  to  a  new  regulation,  of  which 
the  colonel  knew  nothing,  the  kit  belonged  to  the 
soldier.  The  Handful,  blazing  with  indignation, 
claimed  justice.  It  ended,  this  strange  scene  of  a 
soldier's  departure  from  his  regiment,  by  the 
colonel  drawing  a  cheque  for  six  pounds,  and 
giving  it  to  the  ex-soldier,  with  apologies.  The 
Handful  carried  the  cheque  to  the  canteen  and 
"  blew  it "  in  drink.  When  the  cab,  which  had 
been  waiting  for  him  some  hours,  left  the  barracks 
it  was  drawn  by  half  the  men  in  his  company, 
mostly  drunk. 

He  became  door-keeper  at  a  public-house  in 
Deptford,  close  to  his  mother's  home.  In  a  single 
month  he  had  made  five  appearances  before  his 
master  for  being  drunk  on  duty.  Finally,  he  took 
off  his  master's  clothes — that  is  to  say,  his  uni- 
form— in  Deptford  Broadway,  threw  them  down, 
and  prepared  to  fight  his  employer.  There  was  a 
scene.  And  he  left. 

It  would  be  wearisome  to  follow  him  through 
all  his  various  short-lived  employments  at  this 
period  of  his  life.  He  lost  them  through  drink 
and  temper.  He  could  not  master  his  appetite 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  73 

for  drink,  and  when  he  was  censured  his  temper 
blazed  up  and  violence  followed. 

And  yet  there  was  something  so  likable  and 
commending  about  him  that  in  spite  of  his  army 
record,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  subsequent  vagaries, 
he  was  able  to  obtain  employment  as  railway  po- 
liceman at  one  of  the  great  metropolitan  stations. 

It  was  during  this  employment  that  he  met  his 
future  wife — a  little,  pale,  soft-voiced,  delicate 
blonde,  with  hair  the  colour  of  pale  straw,  and 
eyes  like  cornflowers — one  of  the  meekest,  gen- 
tlest, quietest  little  creatures  that  ever  attracted  the 
admiration  of  a  hot-pacing  devil.  On  the  morn- 
ing of  his  wedding-day  he  went  to  meet  some 
friends  at  Waterloo  Station,  who  were  coming  up 
for  the  event.  He  met  some  soldiers  instead. 
They  were  men  of  his  regiment,  and  his  regiment 
was  going  to  South  Africa.  They  adjourned  to 
a  public-house,  and  a  deal  of  the  honeymoon 
money  went  into  the  pockets  of  brewery  share- 
holders. The  wedding  was  in  Marylebone  at 
eleven;  the  bridegroom  arrived  at  12 :3O,  so  drunk 
that  it  was  noticeable.  After  the  service  the 
clergyman  advised  the  poor  little  timid  blonde  to 
take  her  husband  home  and  reform  him. 

Some  few  months  afterwards,  while  his  ex- 
perience of  a  home  and  domestic  happiness  was 
still  quite  fresh,  and  when  the  time  that  he  would 
become  a  father  was  approaching,  he  was  drunk 
on  duty.  A  man  occupying  the  rank  of  his 


74  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

father,  an  inspector  of  police,  rebuked  him  and 
ordered  him  off  duty.  The  Handful  knocked 
him  down  with  a  blow  in  the  face. 

He  arrived  home  that  night  in  a  cab,  suspended 
from  duty.  It  was  after  midnight,  nearly  one 
o'clock.  He  pulled  his  wife  out  of  bed,  made  her 
dress,  and  took  her  out  in  the  streets.  There  he 
forced  her  to  walk  up  and  down  with  him  till  four 
o'clock,  when  some  particularly  obliging  public- 
houses  open  their  doors.  He  was  like  a  madman. 

A  fortnight  after  his  son  was  born. 

It  was  now  that  the  devil  of  rage  began  to 
possess  his  whole  nature  and  to  rule  every  minute 
of  his  day.  Hitherto  there  had  been  spells  of 
gentleness,  interludes  of  cheerfulness,  in  which  he 
played  the  part  of  a  merry  and  roystering  com- 
panion; but  now  a  settled  sullenness,  a  brooding 
wrath,  a  simmering  exasperation  occupied  his 
soul;  he  felt  the  blood  boiling,  the  gorge  rising, 
always. 

He  was  at  enmity  with  the  whole  world,  his 
violent  resentment  was  for  life  itself;  but  there 
was  in  his  dark  and  wrathful  mind  one  particular 
and  individual  animosity — it  was  for  his  wife. 

In  the  phrase  of  the  street,  this  poor  little 
woman  "  got  on  his  nerves.'* 

As  he  looks  back  upon  that  time,  shamefacedly 
enough,  and  yet  with  a  certain  intelligent  interest 
of  inquiry,  he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was 
the  exceeding  meekness  of  his  wife  which  filled 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  75 

him  with  this  irrational  hate.  She  never  com- 
plained of  his  drunkenness  or  his  idleness;  she 
never  replied  to  his  taunts;  she  never  accused  him 
of  the  suffering  he  had  brought  upon  her  and 
their  child.  Very  quietly,  this  little  pale-haired 
woman,  who  unlike  most  of  her  class  in  England 
is  a  skilful  cook  and  an  excellent  housekeeper, 
performed  the  domestic  duties  with  devotion,  and 
kept  the  home  together  as  well  as  she  could. 

It  was  this  mildness  of  her  disposition  that 
exasperated  the  young  husband. 

He  longed,  he  tells  me,  longed  with  all  the  fury 
of  his  brain,  to  see  rebellion  flash  from  her  eyes, 
to  hear  bitter  words  pour  from  her  lips,  to  feel 
the  blow  of  her  fist  in  his  face.  Then  he  might 
have  emptied  all  the  black  displeasure  of  his  heart 
in  one  great  excusable  thrashing  which  would 
have  made  him  her  master,  and  her  his  dog. 

But  her  meekness  cowered  him  with  the  feeling 
of  inferiority. 

With  hate  and  murder  in  his  heart  he  made  a 
hell  of  that  little  home.  His  wife  says  to  me,  as 
she  bends  over  her  cake-tins  in  the  kitchen  of 
their  basement  home,  "  He  was  just  like  a  mad- 
man." She  does  not  look  up  from  her  work; 
there  is  no  energy  in  her  words;  she  would  say 
in  exactly  the  same  tone  of  voice,  "  He  was  not 
very  well,"  or,  "  The  weather  is  trying."  And 
the  young  husband,  sitting  on  the  foot  of  a  sofa 
occupied  by  their  baby  at  the  other  end,  laughs 


76  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

quietly,  stretches  his  long  legs,  and  says,  "  I  was 
a  tight  handful." 

How  did  he  treat  her? 

It  was  a  curious  form  of  tyranny.  He  never 
once  laid  hands  upon  her.  "  I  sometimes  used  to 
wish  that  he  would,"  she  says  quietly.  No;  his 
tyranny  took  another  form.  He  held  over  her 
head  a  menace — the  menace  that  he  would  murder 
her.  Sometimes  he  would  sit  quietly  in  his  chair, 
regard  her  with  eyes  full  of  hate,  and  say,  "  I'll 
kill  you  one  day,  mark  my  words !  "  At  another 
time  he  would  come  smashing  and  swearing  into 
the  house,  his  face  scorching  red,  his  eyes  burn- 
ing, and  throwing  things  here  and  there,  kicking 
this  and  that  out  of  his  way,  would  swear  by  God 
in  heaven  that  he  could  bear  this  woman  no 
longer.  And  again,  at  other  times,  when  the  cry 
of  the  baby  woke  him  from  sleep  and  he  opened 
his  eyes  to  see  the  mother  tenderly  soothing  the 
child,  he  would  spring  out  of  bed  with  an  oath, 
and  drive  her  from  the  room  to  spend  the  night — 
no  matter  how  wintry — where  she  could.  Some- 
times he  pursued  her,  on  the  very  brink  of  mur- 
der. On  countless  occasions  she  spent  long  nights 
with  her  baby  in  the  coal-cellar,  in  the  little 
chamber  which  has  a  bolt  to  the  door,  or  in  the 
houses  of  neighbours,  or  in  the  streets. 

The  child  became  a  cause  of  exasperation.  He 
hated  it  almost  as  much  as  he  did  its  mother. 
Again  and  again  he  was  thrown  into  a  paroxysm 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  77 

of  fury  by  its  little  querulous  cries.  He  longed 
to  kill  it.  He  had  to  hold  himself  back  from 
seizing  it  up  and  throwing  it  out  of  the  window 
or  dashing  it  to  the  floor.  He  abused  the  mother 
because  of  the  baby.  He  fastened  upon  their 
baby  all  the  blinding  animosity  he  felt  for  his 
wife.  He  cursed  it;  set  his  teeth,  and  stood  over 
it  with  hands  trembling  in  a  passion  of  desire  to 
throttle  it.  The  helplessness  of  the  child  filled 
him  with  inarticulate  fury.  He  wanted  to  hurt 
it,  damage  it,  brutalize  it.  When  he  came  back 
at  night  from  the  public-house,  whose  till  he 
helped  to  load  with  the  money  of  which  his  wife 
went  in  sore  need,  and  found  the  child  restless  and 
peevish,  he  was  flung  into  a  fit  of  explosive 
irascibility  which  always  ended  in  driving  mother 
and  child  from  the  room,  and  held  him  in  a  mad- 
ness of  desire  to  murder  them  both  and  make 
an  end  of  it  all. 

This  state  of  things  endured  for  three  years. 

The  woman  was  a  Christian.  All  through 
those  three  years  of  inexpressible  horror  she  con- 
tinued to  pray  for  the  reformation  of  her  hus- 
band. But  there  were  times  when  the  burden 
was  too  great  for  her.  Twice  she  attempted  to 
commit  suicide. 

It  came  to  the  husband,  in  the  midst  of  his 
madness,  that  the  hour  was  approaching  when  he 
would  infallibly  kill  his  wife.  He  lived  with  this 
thought,  contemplating  all  that  it  meant — to  be- 


78  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

come  a  murderer.  He  became  afraid  of  himself. 
Tel  menace  qui  tremble. 

One  night,  after  a  storm  in  the  house,  he  went 
out  into  the  streets.  On  his  way  he  passed  a  hall 
occupied  by  the  Salvation  Army.  The  door  stood 
open.  A  sudden  impulse  to  enter  took  possession 
of  him.  The  haunted  man  turned  from  the 
streets  and  went  in. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  entered  an  Army 
hall  in  England.  They  were  singing  happy 
hymns,  clapping  their  hands  in  a  rhythmic,  almost 
mechanical,  manner,  with  that  strange  abandon- 
ment of  joy  which  is  so  difficult  for  commonplace 
or  phlegmatic  people  to  understand.  The  room 
was  bright  and  cheerful.  After  the  hymns  fol- 
lowed an  address.  It  was  an  appeal  to  the 
wretched,  miserable,  and  guilty  souls  in  the  hall 
to  come  out  and  publicly  confess  at  the  penitent 
form  their  own  helplessness  to  get  right,  their 
need  for  the  love  and  power  of  God. 

The  haunted  man,  afraid  to  what  ruin  this  mur- 
derous hate  in  his  heart  would  lead  him,  yielded 
to  the  invitation.  He  went  to  the  penitent  form, 
kneeled  down,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
— waiting  for  the  magic  change  in  his  character, 
waiting  to  be  dishaunted. 

They  came  round  him  and  counselled  him,  and 
then  inquired,  with  affectionate  pressures  of  the 
hand  upon  his  broad  shoulders,  "  Are  you 
saved?"  "Do  you  feel  that  you  are  saved?" 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  79 

He  answered,  "  I  am  the  same  as  I  came  in." 

That  night  he  returned  home,  hating  himself 
and  loathing  life.  When  he  told  me  this  ex- 
perience we  were  in  his  home,  and  his  wife  was 
ironing  baby-linen  on  the  kitchen  table.  He 
paused  in  his  narration  to  ask  her,  "  Where  was 
it  you  slept  that  night,  matey  ? — in  the  coal-cellar, 
or  with  neighbours  ?  "  Without  pausing  in  her 
ironing,  the  little  pale  woman  answered,  "  Oh, 
that  night  it  was  in  the  coal-cellar."  The  narra- 
tion flowed  on,  the  iron  had  not  ceased  its  jour- 
neys over  the  white  linen. 

He  was  worse  than  ever  after  this  effort  to  be 
saved. 

At  this  time  he  was  working  on  the  Twopenny 
Tube,  buried  like  a  rat  for  long  hours,  and  com- 
ing up  to  the  surface  at  the  end  of  a  long  day's 
work  with  bitterness  and  resentment  and  despair 
in  his  soul.  Not  an  occupation  likely  to  relieve 
the  oppression  of  his  mind. 

Once  again  he  turned  for  help  to  the  Salvation 
Army.  Once  again  he  did  the  difficult  thing  of 
going  publicly  to  the  penitent  form.  And  once 
again  he  experienced  no  relief.  The  blackness  in 
his  soul  would  not  lift.  He  tells  me  that  at  this 
time  there  was  one  insistent  memory  of  the  past 
haunting  his  thoughts  in  the  midst  of  a  deepening 
despair.  The  first  watch  he  ever  kept  in  India 
was  at  the  prison  in  Secunderabad,  and  while  on 
that  watch  he  had  seen  a  man  flogged ;  although  at 


80  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

the  time  he  was  a  hard,  cold-blooded,  and  defiant 
young  dare-devil,  the  sight  of  that  flogging  so 
took  effect  upon  him  that  he  almost  fainted  at  his 
post.  And  now  the  terrible  impression  revived,  a 
trick  of  the  subconscious  self,  and  he  went  about 
envying  with  all  his  heart  the  man  who  had  been 
flogged. 

He  says,  quite  simply,  but  with  the  masterful 
energy  of  his  character,  "  My  thoughts  lived  with 
that  man — if  only  I  could  get  it  on  my  back!  I 
seemed  to  feel  the  same  stripes  entering  my 
brain." 

He  was  also  haunted  at  this  time,  why  he  cannot 
say,  by  some  words  in  the  Bible  which  he  had 
learned  without  comprehending  their  meaning, 
"  My  spirit  shall  not  always  strive  with  man." 
They  frightened  him. 

He  was  conscious,  in  the  words  of  Professor 
James,  this  ex-soldier,  this  guard  opening  and 
shutting  doors  on  the  Twopenny  Tube,  of  being 
wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy.  Is  it  not  a  holding 
thought  to  consider  that  some  of  the  servants  of 
the  public  in  London,  of  whom  one  takes  so  little 
notice,  and  who  appear  to  be  such  purely  mechan- 
ical things  in  the  general  life,  are  concerned  with 
such  matters  as  this  ? — that  in  the  solitude  of  their 
souls  they  feel  themselves  to  be  related  to  the  uni- 
verse, responsible  to  God? 

The  Tight  Handful,  with  his  gropings  into  the 
infinite,  and  the  ungovernable  fury  of  his  temper, 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  81 

was  now  going  more  confidently  to  beer  for  relief 
than  to  the  penitent  form;  going  more  eagerly, 
and  at  the  same  time  more  desperately,  because 
it  did  provide  him  with  the  escape  from  himself 
which  alone  averted  madness  and  murder. 

It  was  in  a  condition  of  drink  that  he  returned 
one  day  resolved  to  drive  his  wife  and  child  out 
of  the  house,  to  sell  up  all  his  furniture,  and  to  go 
himself  out  of  London,  on  the  tramp,  anywhere 
and  anyhow,  he  cared  not  what  might  happen. 
That  was  the  revelation  brought  to  him  by  drink. 
He  was  not  to  worry  about  his  soul,  but  to  kick 
responsibility  out  of  his  path,  and  live  bravely, 
defiantly,  to  his  own  pleasure.  At  all  costs  he 
must  escape  from  the  deadly  monotony  of  his 
unintelligent  employment,  renounce  all  his  domes- 
tic responsibilities,  escape  from  the  spiritual 
hauntings  which  now  distracted  him,  and  taste 
adventure. 

What!  a  man  with  his  vigour  and  energy  and 
longings,  to  be  sunk  all  his  days  in  an  under- 
ground railway,  to  be  tied  to  a  little  pale-faced 
wife,  to  be  forced  to  provide  her  with  food  and 
clothes,  and  food  and  clothes  for  her  baby — to 
spend  his  days  tied  to  this  wretched  go-cart  of  do- 
mesticity— he  who  had  soldiered  in  India  and 
lived  freely,  grandly,  riotously, — like  a  gentle- 
man! 

So  he  drove  his  wife  and  child  from  his  house. 

When  they  were  gone,  he  found  that  she  had 


82  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

left  for  him,  on  the  mantelpiece,  the  money  for 
the  rent,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  shillings. 
This  last  service  of  faithful  love  steadied  him  a 
little,  made  him  think.  He  went  back  to  his  duty 
on  the  railway. 

And  now  we  reach  a  point  in  the  story  where 
mystery,  unaccountable  to  the  man  himself,  en- 
ters and  hurries  the  conclusion. 

On  his  first  journey  that  day,  from  the  Bank  to 
Shepherd's  Bush,  this  young  guard  heard  a  voice. 
He  tells  you  quite  calmly,  and  with  a  resolution 
of  conviction  nothing  can  shake,  that  as  distinctly 
as  ever  he  heard  sound  in  his  life,  he  heard  that 
morning  a  voice,  which  said  to  him :  "  It  is  your 
fault,  not  God's,  that  you  cannot  be  saved;  you 
won't  trust." 

It  was  the  suggestion,  which  psychologists  per- 
fectly understand,  of  surrender;  the  clear,  em- 
phatic injunction  of  Christ — the  stressed  idea  ex- 
pressed in  so  many  forms — the  absolute  necessity 
for  losing  one's  life,  laying  down  one's  life,  losing 
one's  soul — the  new  birth,  being  born  again — 
almost,  one  might  say,  the  sine  qua  non  of  Christ's 
revelation. 

To  yield,  to  cease  to  struggle,  to  be  passive,  to 
be  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter — utterly  to 
surrender  the  will  to  some  vast  power  dimly  com- 
prehended and  vaguely  desired — this  was  the 
instant  and  poignant  movement  in  the  mind  of  the 
man  following  the  sound  of  the  voice. 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  88 

He  surrendered. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is,"  M.  de  Lamennais 
said  on  one  occasion  to  his  pupils,  "  which  makes 
man  the  most  suffering  of  all  creatures?  It  is 
that  he  has  one  foot  in  the  finite  and  the  other  in 
the  infinite,  and  that  he  is  torn  asunder,  not  by 
four  horses,  as  in  the  horrible  old  times,  but  be- 
tween two  worlds." 

The  whole  struggle  is  there.  It  does  not  mat- 
ter how  literate  or  how  illiterate,  how  great  or 
how  ignoble,  how  religious  or  how  irreligious, 
every  man  according  to  his  degree,  in  the  solitude 
of  his  thoughts  and  the  silence  of  his  soul,  is  torn 
between  two  worlds.  It  is  a  struggle  universal 
and  inescapable.  I  am  persuaded  that  even  in  the 
most  abandoned  and  depraved  of  wretches  this 
struggle  never  ceases;  in  some  form  or  another, 
perverted  enough  in  some  cases,  the  struggle  be- 
tween the  one  world  and  the  other  goes  on  to  the 
end.  It  really  does  not  signify  whether  we  call 
it  a  struggle  between  two  worlds  or  between  the 
higher  and  the  lower  natures,  whether  it  is  the 
immense  conflict  of  a  Hamlet  or  the  effort  of  a 
clerk  to  be  more  industrious  and  honest  at  his 
duties;  the  significance  of  this  duality  is  its  uni- 
versal presence  in  the  human  race,  and  its  in- 
explicable insistence — unless  there  is  a  spiritual 
destiny  for  humankind.  The  man  in  this  story 
had  hated  the  one  world  because  his  subconscious- 
ness  was  aware  of  the  other;  he  had  come  to 


84  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

loathe  his  life  because  he  had  glimpses  in  the 
darkness  of  his  soul  of  another  and  a  better;  he 
was  consciously  wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy, 
and  however  vaguely,  however  blindly,  he  wanted 
to  be  consciously  right,  superior,  and  happy. 

Directly  this  complete  surrender  of  his  mind 
followed  upon  the  voice,  he  was  aware  instantly 
of  extraordinary  peace.  It  was  as  if  a  typhoon 
had  suddenly  dropped  to  the  stillness  of  a  lake, 
as  if  a  tempest  of  hail  and  snow  had  become  in- 
stantly a  summer  day.  And  in  this  peace  he 
heard  not  another  voice,  not  someone  from  out- 
side of  him  addressing  his  conscience,  but  his  own 
inner  consciousness  repeating  the  words,  "  Him 
that  cometh  unto  Me  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out." 

These  words,  he  says,  repeated  themselves  with 
an  unbroken  iteration,  so  that  while  the  train 
roared  and  shook  through  the  darkness  of  the 
Underground  he  was  aware  of  nothing  else. 
They  ceased,  only  to  begin  again.  They  did  not 
set  themselves  to  the  rumble  of  the  wheels,  they 
blotted  out  all  other  sounds.  Standing  on  the 
oscillating  platform  of  the  train  between  the  doors 
of  the  two  carriages,  and  penned  in  by  the  trellis 
gates  of  rattling  iron,  he  heard  these  words  sing- 
ing and  ringing  in  his  brain  with  a  recurrence 
which  was  not  monotony,  but  joy,  and  with  a 
meaning  that  was  neither  a  menace  nor  a  despair, 
but  wonderful  and  emancipating.  "  I  only  knew," 
he  says,  "  that  I  was  saved." 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  85 

The  miracle  had  happened.  Its  effect  was 
obvious  immediately.  In  ten  minutes,  from  the 
moment  when  he  felt  his  soul  leap  suddenly  into 
the  light  of  understanding,  he  was  the  centre  of  a 
group  of  mates  asking  what  had  happened  to 
him,  so  changed  was  his  appearance.  Curiously 
enough  the  humorist,  who  is  always  to  be  found 
in  such  crowds,  put  to  him  the  question,  "  Have 
you  joined  the  Salvation  Army  ?  "  He  answered, 
"  No,  mate,  but  I'm  going  to  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, for  I'm  saved." 

The  man  was  completely  changed.  The  over- 
mastering passion  for  drink  which  had  ruled  him 
like  a  tyrant,  the  frightful  rage  and  resentment 
which  had  made  him  a  demon,  and  the  disgust 
and  hatred  of  life  which  had  darkened  all  his 
outlook  upon  existence — vanished,  ceased  to  exist, 
passed  out  of  his  life  as  if  they  had  never  been 
there. 

He  was  filled  with  a  delightsome  joy. 

Such  an  amazing  revulsion,  such  a  complete 
and  total  transformation  of  character,  is  an 
achievement  possible  only  to  religious  influences. 
Hypnotism,  as  I  know,  can  undoubtedly,  after 
many  weeks  of  operation,  cure  some  men  of  their 
vices.  Drugs  are  able  in  certain  cases,  after  a 
long  and  difficult  treatment,  to  remove  the  taste 
for  alcohol  But  it  is  only  a  religious  force  which, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  can  so  alter  the  char- 
acter of  a  man  that  he  not  only  then  and  there 


86  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

escapes  and  stands  utterly  free  from  tyrannical 
passions,  but  is  filled  full  of  a  great  enthusiasm, 
desires  to  spend  his  whole  life  in  working  for 
righteousness,  and  feels  as  if  he  had  fed  on 
honey-dew  and  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

This  is  the  wonder-side  of  conversion  which  no 
theory  of  psychology  can  explain.  It  is  also  the 
greatest  force  in  religion.  Theology  has  no 
proofs;  religious  experience  does  not  need  them. 

In  a  few  days  this  man  had  found  his  wife,  told 
her  his  story,  and  both  were  agreed  to  begin  their 
life  again,  and  to  begin  it  by  entering  the  Salva- 
tion Army.  On  the  Saturday  night  of  that  week 
they  went  together  to  the  hall  occupied  by  the 
Army  in  the  district  that  knew  the  tragedy  of 
their  former  life,  and  at  the  form  where  twice 
before  the  young  soldier  had  kneeled  half  crazed 
with  drink  and  rage,  they  both  knelt — "  not  to 
get  saved,"  he  says,  "  but  to  signify  that  we  in- 
tended to  serve  God  in  the  ranks  of  the  Salvation 
Army." 

That  was  six  years  ago.  During  those  six 
years,  this  handsome  and  striking-looking  man — 
as  good-looking>  shapely,  and  vigorous  a  man  as 
you  could  wish  to  see — has  worked  for  the  Army 
without  pay  of  any  kind,  has  been  the  life  and 
soul  of  his  corps,  and  is  now,  with  the  Puncher, 
perhaps  the  greatest  force  making  for  enthusiasm 
in  all  its  local  activities.  He  does  not  preach, 
preaching  is  not  in  his  line,  but  when  he  is  forced 


A  TIGHT  HANDFUL  87 

to  it — though  the  ordeal  almost  terrifies  him — he 
will  stand  up  before  a  crowd  and  "  testify  " — 
that  is  to  say,  tell  of  his  shame  and  of  his  great 
deliverance.  And  his  home,  well  furnished  and 
comfortable,  its  shelves  filled  with  books  that  he 
has  bought  for  a  few  coppers  on  stalls  in  the 
gutter,  is  one  of  the  happiest  and  most  respected 
in  all  that  district.  He  has  advanced  to  a  high 
place  in  the  hard  and  laborious  work  by  which 
he  earns  daily  bread.  There  is  no  one  among 
his  mates,  his  acquaintances,  or  even  the  poor 
foul  people  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  does  not 
respect  him,  think  well  of  him,  and  like  him. 
His  happiness  is  infectious.  His  old  mother  at 
Charing  Cross  Station  thanks  God  that  she  has 
lived  to  see  the  day  of  her  boy's  salvation. 

He  says  to  me,  quite  quietly,  smiling  and  shak- 
ing his  head  in  perplexity,  "  It's  a  fair  marvel ; 
there's  no  mistake  about  that;  people  can  get  away 
from  a  lot  of  things,  but  they  can't  get  away 
from  conversion.  No !  And  see  what  it  does  for 
a  man !  It  does  give  him  a  new  birth.  I've  still 
got  faults,  a  lot  of  them,  but  I'm  absolutely  differ- 
ent from  what  I  was  before  conversion.  I've  got 
different  ideas  about  life, — everything.  I'm 
happy.  I'm  keen  about  helping  others.  I  love 
the  work,  I  love  my  home,  and  I  can  put  up  with 
a  baby!" 

There  is  in  his  little  sitting-room,  which  you 
would  never  take  to  be  the  room  of  a  labouring 


88  A  TIGHT  HANDFUL 

man,  a  cabinet  full  of  a  child's  old  playthings, 
spelling-books,  paint-boxes,  and  toy  animals.  It 
is  sacred  to  these  things.  They  belonged  to  the 
child  he  so  often  drove  from  his  sight. 

"  I  was  pulled  up  sharp/'  he  says,  mournfully 
and  with  tears,  "  when  the  little  chap  went.  He 
was  eight.  And  I  had  hated  him  so  in  the  bad 
time." 

On  another  occasion,  when  we  were  walking 
through  a  street  thronged  by  ragged,  foul-faced, 
barefooted  brats,  about  whose  souls  nobody  ap- 
peared to  care  a  jot,  he  said  suddenly,  "  When  I 
used  to  see  these  children,  just  after  my  boy  was 
dead,  I  couldn't  help  wondering  why  he  should 
be  taken  and  they  should  be  left." 

Happily  there  is  another  child  in  the  house  now, 
and  although  he  confesses  that  he  is  still  any- 
thing but  a  baby's  man,  he  does  sometimes — 
anxiously  overlooked  by  the  little  pale-haired 
wife — take  this  infant,  who  is  so  much  more  con- 
cerned for  the  present  by  teething  than  by  salva- 
tion, on  his  knee  and  attempt,  if  not  to  derive 
joy  from  her,  at  least  to  relieve  his  wife  of  the 
nursing. 

Certainly  he  will  never  drive  that  child  and  her 
mother,  however  fractious  she  may  be,  out  of  his 
house.  Certainly  he  will  one  day  love  that  child 
with  all  the  force  of  his  charming  character. 


IV 
O.  B.  D. 

WHEN  a  man  becomes  converted  the  Sal- 
vation Army  nurses  him  carefully  until 
he  is  strong  in  the  new  life;  that  is  to 
say,  experienced  officers  visit  him  several  times  in 
the  day,  encourage  him  in  his  new  purpose,  and, 
above  all,  deepen  in  his  mind  the  conviction  that 
someone  cares  for  him. 

The  conversion  of  the  Puncher,  which  was  so 
important  a  matter  to  the  corps  in  that  quarter 
of  London,  was  watched  over  by  the  angel-adju- 
tant. She  paid  visits  to  him  in  his  home,  dropped 
in  to  see  him  at  his  work,  and  waylaid  him,  with 
affection,  on  his  way  home. 

He  was  at  work  in  a  carriage-builder's  factory, 
and  the  proprietor  of  the  establishment  was  an 
infidel.  But  between  this  man  and  the  adjutant 
was  one  point  in  common,  music;  both  played 
the  concertina  and  loved  it  above  all  the  instru- 
ments. "  Oh,  I  only  played  in  an  ordinary  way," 
the  adjutant  tells  me;  adding  with  enthusiasm, 
"  but  he  was  a  master." 

It  was  the  concertina  which  made  it  possible  for 
the  Christian  to  invade  the  premises  of  the  infidel. 
Adjutant  and  carriage  proprietor  had  many  pleas- 

89 


90  O.  B.  D. 

ant  and  quite  amiable  conversations.  In  this  busy 
factory  in  the  midst  of  London,  they  talked  of 
music,  and  the  angel,  watching  over  the  Punch- 
er's conversion,  softened  the  asperities  of  the 
infidel's  worship  of  the  No-God. 

One  day  she  was  talking  to  the  Puncher  in  the 
carriage  factory,  when  he  said  to  her,  "  I  wish 
you'd  have  a  talk  with  the  man  who  comes  round 
here  with  the  papers;  he's  proper  low;  they  call 
him  Old  Born  Drunk;  and  he  looks  it.  But  I 
was  almost  like  that  myself,  not  so  very  long  ago. 
No  one  can  be  hopeless,  after  me.  I  wish  you'd 
speak  to  him."  Thus  early  in  his  conversion  did 
the  Puncher — that  quiet  and  mysterious  person- 
ality— manifest  what  one  calls  his  "passion  for 
souls." 

The  little  adjutant  waited  one  day  to  see  this 
man  who  had  a  newspaper  round,  and  who  vis- 
ited the  carriage  factory  to  serve  the  workmen 
with  betting  news. 

She  had  seen  many  of  the  lowest  and  most 
depraved  people  in  London,  but  until  she  saw  Old 
Born  Drunk  never  had  she  realized  the  hideous- 
ness  and  repulsive  abomination  to  which  vice  can 
degrade  the  human  body. 

This  man,  the  child  of  frightfully  drunken 
parents,  had  been  born  in  drink,  and  was  almost 
certainly,  as  his  name  declared,  actually  born 
drunk.  He  had  been  taught  to  drink  and  had 
acquired  an  insatiable  appetite  for  drink  in  earliest 


O.  B.  D.  91 

childhood.  He  was  now,  at  the  age  of  five-  or 
six-and- forty,  habitually  drunk — sodden. 

The  vileness  of  his  clothing  and  the  unhealthy 
appearance  of  his  flesh  did  not  strike  the  adjutant 
till  afterwards.  Her  whole  attention  was  held  in 
a  kind  of  horror  by  the  aspect  of  the  man's  eyes. 
They  were  terrible  with  soullessness.  She  racks 
her  brain  in  vain  to  find  words  to  describe  them. 
She  returns  again  and  again  to  the  word  stupefied. 
That  is  the  word  that  least  fails  to  misrepresent 
what  no  language  can  describe.  Stupefied !  Not 
weakness,  not  feebleness;  not  cunning,  not  de- 
pravity; but  stupor.  They  were  the  eyes  of  a 
man  neither  living  nor  dead;  they  were  the  eyes 
of  nothing  that  had  ever  lived  or  could  ever  die — 
the  eyes  of  eternal  stillborn  stupor. 

These  eyes  were  hardly  discernible,  for  the 
flaccid  lids  hung  over  the  pupils,  and  the  bagged 
flesh  of  the  swollen  white  face  pressed  upon  them 
from  below.  There  was  just  a  disc  of  glazed 
luminosity  showing  in  each  dwindled  socket — a 
disc  of  veiling  existence,  perishing  life,  of  stupor. 

For  the  rest  he  was  a  true  Miserable,  lower 
than  anything  to  be  found  among  barbarous  na- 
tions, debased  almost  out  of  humanity.  He  was 
short,  thick-set,  misshapen,  vile;  clothed  in  rags 
which  suffocated  those  who  blundered  near  to  him 
— a  creature  whom  ragged  children  mocked  with 
scorn  as  he  passed  down  the  street. 

Civilization  had  produced  this  man.    He  had 


92  O.  B.  D. 

his  place  in  London;  repulsive  as  one  may  find  it 
to  contemplate  him,  he  was  one  of  our  contem- 
poraries; to  the  Salvationist  he  represented  a 
soul. 

She  said  to  him,  "  You  don't  look  very  happy. 
Are  you  ?  "  He  looked,  in  his  dazed  fashion,  into 
her  clear  eyes  and  kept  silence,  as  though  he  had 
lost  both  the  power  of  speech  and  the  ability  to 
understand  it.  She  said,  "  Perhaps  I  could  be  of 
some  service  to  you;  will  you  let  me  try?  Will 
you  let  me  come  and  see  you  in  your  home?  " 

Old  Born  Drunk  could  not  speak.  She  ap- 
proached quite  close  to  him,  bent  her  kind  eyes 
towards  those  terrible  eyes  of  stupor,  and  said, 
"  I  want  to  help  you.  I  know  something  about 
your  life.  They  call  you  Old  Born  Drunk.  Well, 
Old  Born  Drunk,  let  me  come  and  pay  you  a 
visit,  and  make  friends  with  you.  There  may  be 
many  little  ways  in  which  I  can  help  you.  Let  me 
try." 

She  made  him  at  last  understand.  He  told  her 
where  he  lived.  Soon  afterwards  she  called  upon 
him. 

He  occupied  a  single  room,  for  which  he  paid 
seven  shillings  a  week,  in  a  street  more  notorious 
for  abject  destitution  than  for  crime  and  degrada- 
tion. She  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  visiting 
this  place,  but  when  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
room — good  and  angelic  as  she  is — the  little  adju- 
tant almost  turned  and  ran  away.  Such  a  smell 


O.  B.  D.  93 

issued  from  the  den  as  stifled  the  lungs  and  made 
the  spirit  heave  and  shudder  with  disgust. 

Guy  de  Maupassant  has  described  the  odours 
of  a  peasant's  domicile,  with  a  strength  and  power 
of  truth  which  are  unforgettable.  Something  of 
the  same  old  sour  reek,  but  intensified  to  loath- 
someness by  London  squalor  and  slum  air,  hung 
like  a  thick  curtain  in  this  den  of  Old  Born 
Drunk.  Guy  de  Maupassant  speaks  of  the  smell 
of  milk,  apples,  smoke,  and  that  indefinable  odour 
of  old  houses — smell  of  the  earth,  smell  of  the 
walls,  smell  of  the  furniture,  smell  of  ancient 
spilled  soup,  and  ancient  washings,  and  old  poor 
peasants;  smell  of  animals  and  people  living  to- 
gether, smell  of  things  and  of  beings,  a  smell  of 
Time — the  smell  of  the  Past. 

In  the  den  of  Old  Born  Drunk  there  were  all 
these  several  smells,  even  the  smell  of  animals, 
for  the  place  was  like  a  menagerie. 

A  dog  lifted  itself  up  on  the  vile  coverlet  of  an 
unmade  bed,  and  growled  at  the  intruder.  A 
litter  of  guinea-pigs  scuttered  across  the  bare  and 
filthy  boards  of  the  floor,  disappearing  under  the 
bed.  Rabbit-hutches,  with  the  dusky  shapes  of 
their  inmates  dimly  seen  behind  wire  netting, 
emitted  a  thick  and  stifling  smell.  There  were 
cats  on  a  sack  by  the  hearth.  Hanging  from  the 
ceiling  in  front  of  the  closed  window  was  a  cage 
of  doves. 

This  London  interior  was  dark  as  well  as 


94  O.  B.  D. 

stifling.  A  fog  seemed  to  pervade  it  from  dirty 
wall  to  dirty  wall,  from  dark  ceiling  to  reeking 
floor.  A  figure  moved  out  of  this  fog,  while  the 
dog  growled  on  the  unmade  bed ;  it  became  grad- 
ually something  that  suggested  a  woman — a 
creature  thin,  emaciated,  woebegone,  clothed  al- 
most entirely  in  sacking.  She  stood  before  the 
Salvationist,  in  all  her  wretchedness  and  squalor; 
a  thing  really  lower  than  the  animals  among 
whom  she  spent  her  life;  a  woman — the  woman 
who  loved  Old  Born  Drunk.  Consider  the 
miracle.  Imagine  to  what  misery  a  woman  can 
be  brought  that  she  should  marry  such  a  man. 
Reflect  that  this  woman  loved  him. 

The  adjutant  entered  the  room  and  talked  to 
this  miracle — the  woman  who  loved  Old  Born 
Drunk.  The  birds  and  animals  provided  a  topic 
of  conversation.  She  discovered  that  they  be- 
longed to  the  child  of  these  two  poor  people. 
Yes,  they  had  a  child,  a  new  life  had  been  born 
into  this  den;  and  these  animals  and  birds  were 
the  boy's  pets. 

The  mother  fetched  a  photograph  and  handed 
it  to  the  visitor,  not  without  pride.  Astonished, 
the  adjutant  beheld  in  this  picture  a  bright,  hand- 
some, and  well-dressed  boy.  The  intelligence  in 
his  face,  and  the  self-respect  in  his  bearing  filled 
her  with  amazement.  She  could  hardly  believe 
that  he  was  the  child  of  these  parents. 

"  This  is  your  son?  "  she  asked. 


O.  B.  D.  95 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  in  her  weary  way. 
"  He  don't  look  it,  do  he  ?  But  we've  been  very 
careful  with  him,  and  he's  in  a  good  situation,  so 
perhaps  he'll  be  all  right.  We  hope  he  will,  at  all 
events." 

Then  the  adjutant  discovered  that  these  fright- 
ful parents — in  the  midst  of  their  destitution  and 
degradation — loved  this  one  child  with  a  self- 
abnegation  and  devotion  quite  wonderful  in  its 
purity  and  strength.  For  him  the  den  reeked, 
because  when  he  visited  them  he  liked  to  see  his 
old  pets;  and  for  him  those  pets  had  been  bought, 
in  the  first  place,  out  of  coppers  earned  on  the 
newspaper  round,  and  denied,  God  knows  with 
what  struggle,  to  a  publican  by  a  dipsomaniac, 
by  poor  Old  Born  Drunk,  who  had  this  one  pure 
passion  growing  like  a  white  flower  in  the  corrup- 
tion of  his  soul.  The  drunkard  and  his  wife 
loved  their  son.  The  den  was  his  home. 

The  Salvationist  made  this  boy  the  lever  of 
her  appeal.  She  came  constantly  to  the  vile  den, 
and  saw  the  parents  together.  They  were  both 
easily  convinced  of  her  first  premiss,  that  life 
would  be  certainly  more  comfortable  for  them  if 
Old  Born  Drunk  signed  the  pledge  and  kept  it. 
But  even  the  wife,  who  was  not  a  drunkard, 
appeared  to  agree  with  her  husband  that  such  a 
consummation  lay  quite  in  the  realms  of  fantasy. 
"  You  see,"  said  his  wife,  "  he's  been  used  to  it 
from  a  little  'un;  it's  meat  and  drink  to  him; 


96  O.  B.  D. 

look  at  his  name,  Old  Born  Drunk!  I  really 
don't  think  he'd  be  good  for  anything  if  he  was 
to  give  it  up,  I  don't  really."  As  for  Old  Born 
Drunk  himself,  he  did  not  argue  the  question; 
he  merely  left  it  with  a  great  silence  in  the  region 
of  the  impossible.  He  listened  to  the  chatter  of 
the  women  as  a  philosopher  might  heed  for  a 
moment  the  notes  of  quarrelling  sparrows. 

But  the  adjutant's  kindness  and  humanity  did 
so  far  appeal  to  these  two  Londoners  as  to  induce 
them  to  attend  some  of  the  services  at  the  local 
hall.  They  left  their  menagerie,  and  in  their  poor 
vile  rags  came  to  the  evening  meetings,  and  sat 
with  the  Miserables  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  listen- 
ing to  the  band,  listening  to  the  hymns,  listening 
to  the  praying  and  preaching,  feeling  the  warmth, 
brightness,  and  cleanness  of  the  atmosphere — 
thinking  something  in  their  minds  of  which  we 
have  no  knowledge. 

Both  of  them  appeared  stupefied  on  these  occa- 
sions. Apparently  the  service  had  no  meaning 
for  them.  In  just  such  a  similar  manner  two 
owls  in  a  belfry  might  listen  to  church  music. 
They  came,  they  sat,  they  disappeared. 

The  adjutant  began  to  feel  that  they  had  fallen 
below  the  depths  to  which  human  sympathy  can 
reach.  Her  officers  used  to  say,  in  despair, 
"  They  don't  seem  to  understand  a  word  that  is 
said  to  them."  It  was  this  deep  stupor  of  the 
two  Miserables  which  made  for  hopelessness  and 


O.  B.  D.  97 

despair.  One  did  not  feel  their  sins  or  their 
wretchedness  a  bar;  but  this  terrible  stupor  of 
the  understanding  was  like  a  thick  impenetrable 
curtain  let  down  between  their  souls  and  the 
light.  No  one  could  reach  them.  They  did  not 
understand. 

Just  about  this  time  the  Puncher  and  the 
adjutant  conceived  the  idea  of  a  great  and  stirring 
revival.  The  Puncher  and  those  whom  he  had 
influenced — it  must  be  carefully  remembered  that 
these  men  were  once  the  terrors  of  the  neighbour- 
hood— agreed  that  they  would  make  a  public  ex- 
hibition of  themselves  in  the  worst  streets,  and 
afterwards  confess  the  whole  story  of  their  lives, 
man  by  man,  in  the  hall.  Do  not  let  it  be  thought 
that  any  one  of  these  men  contemplated  the  ex- 
hibition with  delight.  They  had  to  screw  their 
courage  to  the  ordeal ;  remember,  there  were  their 
wives  to  be  thought  of,  as  well  as  a  vast  mob. 

The  Puncher — that  quiet,  pale-faced,  sorrowful 
desirer  of  souls — inspired  the  little  corps  with 
fortitude.  "  God  has  done  a  lot  for  us,"  he  said ; 
"  we  oughtn't  to  mind  doing  a  bit  for  Him." 
The  angel-adjutant  listened  to  the  ideas  of  these 
men,  and  the  revival  was  planned. 

The  first  effort  took  the  form  of  a  procession 
through  the  worst  streets  of  the  neighbourhood, 
at  their  most  crowded  hour  of  the  evening,  a 
procession  of  horse-drawn  trolleys,  with  the  con- 
verted terrors  of  the  neighbourhood  posed  in 


98  O.  B.  D. 

various  attitudes  suggesting  their  past  lives—- 
such, for  instance,  as  a  man  in  convict's  dress 
suffering  the  penalty  of  his  crimes. 

The  streets  were  thronged.  While  the  trolleys 
made  their  way  through  the  multitude,  the  adju- 
tant and  her  assistants  passed  among  the  crowd, 
inviting  people  to  attend  the  meeting  in  the  hall. 
The  result  was  such  a  pack  as  never  before  had 
filled  the  large  meeting-place.  Among  this  vast 
audience  were  Old  Born  Drunk  and  his  wife, 
who  had  come  early  on  the  invitation  of  the 
adjutant. 

The  meeting  began  with  a  hymn,  a  reading  of 
the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  a  brief  prayer, 
and  then  followed  testimonies  by  the  converted 
men.  One  after  another  they  stood  up,  told  how 
they  had  suffered,  told  how  they  had  sunk  to  the 
gutter,  and  how  their  homes  were  now  happy, 
their  lives  clean,  and  their  hearts  glad.  In  the 
words  of  Professor  James,  these  simple  men  of 
the  people  told  their  fellows  how  they  had  been 
consciously  wrong,  inferior,  and  unhappy,  and 
how  they  were  now  become,  by  the  mercy  of  God, 
consciously  right,  superior,  and  happy. 

The  angel-adjutant  then  made  her  appeal.  She 
declared  that  anybody  in  that  hall,  never  mind 
how  vile  and  deserted  and  shameful,  could  become 
in  an  instant  radiant  with  happiness  and  peace, 
by  coming  to  the  penitent  form,  kneeling  there, 
and  asking  God  to  forgive  him  his  sins.  She 


O.  B.  D.  99 

couid  point  to  the  men  on  the  platform  as  living 
proofs  of  her  assurance. 

Several  people  rose  from  their  seats,  most  of 
them  with  that  quiet  dogged  stolidity  of  the 
London  workman,  characteristic  of  his  whole  life, 
and  advanced  to  the  penitent  form,  like  men  who 
had  to  go  through  with  something  distasteful 
and  hard.  Some  of  them  said,  "  God  be  merciful 
to  me  a  sinner! "  others  bowed  and  were  silent; 
many  of  the  women  were  crying. 

At  the  back  of  these  penitents  came  Old  Born 
Drunk  and  his  wife. 

The  adjutant  and  her  officers  were  more  aston- 
ished than  all  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  meeting. 
They  knew,  what  the  others  did  not  realize,  the 
impenetrable  stupefaction  of  the  man's  mind, 
his  total  obfuscation  of  soul.  For  the  others,  he 
was  only  a  particularly  dirty,  particularly  vile, 
particularly  drunken  one-of -themselves. 

The  adjutant  approached  the  poor  old  man  as 
he  reached  the  bench.  The  small  dulled  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears.  She  put  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
he  said  to  her,  in  a  crying  tone,  "  Oh,  I  want  to 
be  like  Joe!"— one  of  the  men  who  had  testi- 
fied.* 

Afterwards  he  said  to  her, "  While  I  was  listen- 
ing to  Joe,  thinking  of  what  he's  been,  and  seeing 
what  he's  become,  all  of  a  sudden  it  took  me  that 
I'd  find  God  and  get  Him  to  make  me  like  Joe. 

*  His  story  is  told  under  the  title  of  "  The  Criminal." 


100  O.  B.  D. 

It  took  me  lik'e  that.  I  just  felt,  all  of  a  sudden, 
determined  to  find  God.  Determined!"  he  re- 
peated, with  energy  astonishing  in  this  broken  and 
hopeless  creature  of  alcoholism.  "  And,"  he  went 
on,  "  while  I  was  kneeling,  while  I  was  praying, 
I  felt  the  spirit  of  God  come  upon  me.  I  said, 
'  Oh,  God,  make  me  like  Joe ! '  and  while  I 
prayed,  I  felt  the  spirit  come  upon  me.  I  knew 
I  could  become  like  Joe.  I  know  I'm  saved." 

He  was  quite  emphatic.  But,  the  adjutant, 
knowing  the  power  of  temptation,  realizing  the 
saturation  of  this  man's  whole  being  by  alcohol, 
feared  greatly  for  the  stability  of  his  salvation. 
She  feared  chiefly  on  one  account.  The  news- 
paper round  by  which  he  earned  daily  bread  in- 
cluded practically  all  the  public-houses  in  that 
quarter.  Unless  some  other  work  could  be  found 
for  Old  Born  Drunk,  surely  he  must  fall  some 
day,  surely  the  temptation  would  one  day  prove 
too  strong  for  him.  On  the  other  hand,  if  work 
of  a  different  kind  could  be  found  for  him,  even 
this  sunken  dipsomaniac  might,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  make  fight  against  his  madness.  It  was 
just  possible.  She  had  seen  miracles  almost  as 
wonderful. 

She  went  to  discuss  things  with  Old  Born 
Drunk. 

He  sat  and  listened  to  all  she  said  with  the  old 
dazed  stupor  in  his  eyes,  apparently  not  under- 
standing one  of  the  kind  and  considerate  words 


O.  B.  D.  101 

that  were  said  to  him.  The  adjutant  turned  to 
his  wife,  "Is  there  no  other  work  he  can  do? 
Doesn't  he  feel  that  he  would  like  some  kind  of 
work  that  he  has  seen  other  men  doing?" 

The  wife  looked  at  her  husband,  "  Do  you, 
dear?" 

He  began  to  move  his  lips,  considering  how  to 
express  his  thoughts.  Then  he  said,  "  I  don't 
want  anything  else."  He  paused  a  moment, 
glancing  from  the  guinea-pigs  on  the  floor  to  the 
grimy  window.  "  I  must  show  them,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  am  converted." 

The  adjutant  endeavoured  to  make  him  realize 
his  danger.  For  weeks,  for  months,  he  might  be 
able  to  withstand  temptation.  But,  if  the  moment 
came,  some  day  in  the  future,  when,  perhaps,  he 
was  not  well,  or  felt  unhappy — might  he  not  fail  ? 
She  made  him,  or  rather  she  tried  to  make  him, 
see  that  conversion  is  a  long  road.  The  first  glow 
dies  away;  one  sees  beyond  this  lifting  glory  a 
long  straight  road  running  to  life's  end.  One 
rises  from  one's  knees  to  trudge  that  long  road. 
First,  one  mounts  up  with  wings,  like  an  eagle; 
then  one  runs,  and  is  not  weary;  finally,  the  grand 
climax — one  must  walk  and  not  faint.  The  adju- 
tant laboured  to  bring  this  conviction  home  to  the 
understanding  of  the  dipsomaniac. 

The  man  said,  "  I  must  show  them  that  I  am 
converted." 

The  adjutant  continued  to  watch  over  this 


102  O.  B.  D. 

brand  plucked  from  the  burning.  He  remained 
firm.  She  asked  him  if  he  ever  felt  tempted. 
He  replied,  "  The  appetite  has  gone."  They 
watched  him  go  in  and  out  of  the  public-houses — 
he  was  unafraid.  The  other  converts  paid  him 
visits  in  his  den ;  they  all  asked  the  same  question, 
Did  he  feel  quite  sure  that  drink  had  no  tempta- 
tion for  him?  Always  the  same  answer,  "The 
appetite  has  gone."  It  seemed  true.  And  yet, 
how  inconceivable! 

One  day  he  entered  a  public-house  crowded 
with  workmen.  It  was  Saturday  afternoon. 
Pockets  were  full  of  money.  Wives  and  chil- 
dren were  forgotten.  The  place  was  a  din  of 
loud  voices  and  coarse  laughter.  Old  Born 
Drunk  approached  the  counter  with  his  journals. 

There  is  always  a  spirit  of  festivity  and  good- 
humour  in  a  public-house  on  Saturday  after- 
noons. The  workmen,  after  a  pot  or  two  of  beer, 
are  inclined  to  horse-play.  One  of  the  drinkers 
exclaimed,  "  Hullo,  God  strike  me  dead,  if  this 
isn't  Old  Born  Drunk!  Come  here,  daddy;  I'll 
stand  you  a  pot.  We'll  wet  the  Salvation  Army." 

Old  Born  Drunk  served  out  his  papers.  The 
workman  called  for  a  pot  of  beer. 

"  Here,  drink,  you  old  ! "  he  exclaimed, 

forcing  the  pot  towards  the  convert. 

Old  Born  Drunk  shook  his  head. 

"  Come,  drink  it,  like  a  man !  What's  a  pot  to 
you?  Gallons  is  your  mark.  Drink  it!" 


O.  B.  D.  103 

"  No." 

"  Look  here,  daddy;  you're  poor,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Got  the  missus  and  the  kid  to  feed  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"A  bob'd  make  a  lot  of  difference  to  you, 
wouldn't  it  ?  See  here,  daddy ;  I'll  give  you  a  bob, 
straight,  I  will — ah,  honour  bright — if  you'll 
drink  this  pot.  Smell  it.  Smell  it,  old  cock. 
Ain't  it  good?  Come  along,  drink  it  and  earn 
a  bob." 

"  Not  me." 

"You  won't?" 

"  No." 

"Not  for  a  bob?" 

"  Not  for  thousands." 

"You  mean  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  have  it  outside  " — and  with"  that  the 
mocking  workman  flung  the  whole  pot  of  beer 
into  the  old  man's  face. 

There  was  laughter  at  this,  laughter,  too,  at 
the  pitiful  figure  of  the  old  drenched  man, 
blinking  his  eyes,  shaking  the  drops  from 
his  face,  wiping  the  liquor  from  his  mouth  and 
chin. 

"Don't  it  smell  good,  daddy?"  laughed  the 
tormentor.  "  Ain't  beer  got  a  lovely  smell  to  it  ? 
You  silly  old  fool !  Why  didn't  you  take  it  in- 
side, instead  of  out?  Come  here,  I'll  give  you 


104  O.  B.  D. 

another  drop.  I'll  stand  you  one.  You  shan't 
have  the  shilling,  but  you  shall  have  the  beer." 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  said  the  old  man. 

His  firmness,  his  quietness  under  persecution, 
moved  the  rough  men  in  the  bar.  One  of  them 
"  took  up  a  subscription."  Old  Born  Drunk  left 
the  place  with  a  pocket  full  of  money.  Also,  he 
left  it  as  a  hero. 

Weeks,  months,  years  passed  away.  The  old 
fellow  remained  firm.  And  he  made  little  econ- 
omies, in  spite  of  subscriptions  to  the  local  corps 
of  the  Salvation  Army.  One  day  he  was  rich 
enough  to  take  a  tiny  shop  in  the  neighbourhood. 
His  wife  and  son  moved  out  of  the  dreadful  den, 
and  began  a  new  life,  full  of  happiness.  They 
entered  the  ranks  of  respectability. 

It  was  the  old  fellow's  steadfastness  and  lasting 
fortitude  which  made  both  his  wife  and  the  son 
join  the  Salvation  Army.  This  represented  the 
height  of  earthly  happiness  to  Old  Born  Drunk, 
because  he  had  all  along  nursed  one  great  hope  in 
the  profound  of  his  being — the  hope  that  some 
day  his  son  would  be  an  officer  in  the  Army,  that 
is  to  say,  would  devote  all  his  life  to  the  work. 
Old  Born  Drunk  was  not  fit  for  such  high  work ; 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  earn  his  living;  all 
he  could  do  was  to  attend  the  meetings,  march 
behind  the  band,  saying  a  word  or  two  in  private 
to  those  of  his  customers  who  were  sad  and  un- 
happy. But  his  son  had  book  learning,  his  son 


O.  B.  D.  105 

was  good — he  might  perhaps  be  one  day  an  officer 
in  this  great,  merciful,  and  universal  army  of  sal- 
vation. 

This  once  ruined  creature  was  now  happy  and 
whole.  His  conversion  appeared  so  extraordinary 
to  the  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  extraordinary 
in  its  lastingness  as  well  as  in  its  effects,  that  he 
became  a  power  for  righteousness  without  exert- 
ing any  missionary  zeal.  People  looked  at  him  in 
the  streets.  Vicious  and  degraded  men  at  street 
corners,  or  at  the  doors  of  public-houses,  regarded 
the  old  man,  born  again  and  living  in  respectabil- 
ity and  happiness,  with  something  of  the  same 
stirring  in  their  brains  as  once  had  made  him 
exclaim,  "  I  want  to  be  like  Joe."  He  advertised 
salvation. 

Religion  to  these  people  is  not  a  theology.  It 
is  a  fact.  They  are  not  mystical.  They  are  in- 
capable of  definitions.  Old  Born  Drunk  himself 
could  not  have  told  you  anything  about  the  arti- 
cles of  his  religion  or  his  conception  of  the  nature 
of  God.  He  only  knew  that  God  had  saved  him, 
directly  he  sought  salvation  with  a  determined 
mind.  He  only  knew  that  instantly  he  had  been 
delivered  from  absolute  wretchedness.  He  only 
knew  that  he  was  now  very  happy. 

And  this  is  also  what  the  outcasts  saw  in  him. 
They  saw  that  perhaps  the  very  lowest  man  in  the 
whole  neighbourhood,  the  man,  at  any  rate,  most 
sunken  in  drunkenness,  was  now  walking  in  their 


106  O.  B.  D. 

midst,  clean,  happy,  and  respectable.  He  had  got 
religion.  Religion  had  done  the  miracle.  Re- 
ligion was  a  good  thing,  if  only  a  man  could  once 
make  up  his  mind  to  take  the  step.  Look  at  Old 
Born  Drunk.  What  a  difference  religion  had 
made  to  him!  Before  the  miracle  of  Old  Born 
Drunk  the  arguments  of  tavern  atheists  melted 
into  thin  air.  Facts  are  stubborn  things,  and 
never  more  stubborn  than  when  they  walk  the 
street  and  breathe  human  air. 

In  this  way  Old  Born  Drunk  made  a  profound 
impression  in  that  quarter  of  the  town.  Not,  of 
course,  such  a  marvellous  and  staggering  impres- 
sion as  that  produced  by  the  Puncher's  conversion, 
but  a  quiet  and  very  lasting  impression.  He  was 
discussed  in  that  locality,  as  a  novel  or  a  picture  in 
another  quarter  of  the  town.  Never  a  public- 
house  argument  about  religion  that  did  not  end 
with,  "  Well,  anyhow,  what  about  Old  Born 
Drunk?" 

One  day  the  adjutant  learned  that  he  was  ill. 
She  went  at  once  to  see  him.  He  was  dying. 

She  sat  at  his  bedside  very  often  while  he  was 
waiting  for  death,  and  he  talked  to  her  then,  not 
more  fluently  than  he  had  talked  heretofore,  but 
with  more  candour. 

She  said  to  him  once,  "  Well,  you  have  fought 
the  good  fight,  dear  old  friend.  You  never  looked 
back.  You  never  fell.  It  has  been  a  great  vic- 
tory. It  has  blessed  others  besides  yourself.  I 


O.  B.  D.  107 

can  tell  you  now  that  many  thought  you  would 
not  be  able  to  last.  They  thought  that  the  appe- 
tite would  return,  and  that  it  would  prove  too 
strong  for  you.  Many,  many  people  have  prayed 
that  you  might  have  strength  in  that  moment,  if 
it  ever  came." 

He  smiled  wistfully,  and  said  to  her,  "  You  used 
to  think  as  how  it  was  the  drink  that  might  come 
upon  me  again.  It  wasn't  that.  God  took  all 
desire  for  it  clean  away  from  me.  No;  that 
wasn't  the  miracle.  The  greatest  miracle  was — 
the  pipe ! " 

Then  he  told  her  that  all  through  those  years, 
when  they  thought  the  temptation  to  drink  was 
tearing  his  soul,  he  was  putting  up  a  tremendous 
fight  with  the  one  appetite  that  would  not  leave 
him,  the  appetite  for  tobacco. 

His  struggle  had  been  secret  to  himself.  It 
had  been  almost  intolerable.  At  times  he  felt  that 
he  must  go  mad.  There  was  something  in  his 
brain  which  was  like  a  devil,  urging  him  with  the 
most  pitiless  and  unceasing  force  to  the  nulling 
narcotic  of  nicotine.  Always.  Never  had  it  left 
him.  And  he  had  fought  it,  not  because  he  felt 
that  it  was  sinful  to  smoke,  not  even  that  he 
feared  it  might  re-create  his  appetite  for  drink, 
but  because  he  wanted  to  be  as  good  a  soldier 
as  he  could,  to  give  up  everything  for  God. 

And  so,  on  his  dying  bed,  this  old  Londoner, 
picked  from  the  gutter  and  restored  to  humanity, 


108  O.  B.  D. 

contemplated  as  the  great  miracle,  not  his  con- 
version, not  his  total  and  mysterious  freedom 
from  alcoholism,  but  the  ability  with  which  God 
had  provided  him  to  withstand  the  passion  for  his 
pipe.  Always  the  torture  had  been  present,  al- 
ways strength  had  been  sufficient  to  withstand  it. 

Just  before  the  moment  of  his  death,  the  adju- 
tant said  to  him,  "You  are  quite  happy?  You 
know  that  God  has  forgiven  you  everything?  " 

He  answered,  "  I  am  without  fear." 

In  that  neighbourhood  people  still  talk  about 
Old  Born  Drunk,  and  they  like  to  impress  those 
who  will  listen  with  the  wonder  of  his  funeral. 
He  was  given  what  is  called  "  an  Army  funeral," 
that  is  to  say,  he  was  buried  with  the  military 
honours  of  salvation,  just  as  a  great  soldier,  a 
national  hero,  is  buried  with  martial  pomp. 
Thousands  of  people  lined  the  streets  and  fol- 
lowed the  procession  to  the  cemetery.  The  entire 
district  turned  out  like  one  man  to  see  the  last 
of  Old  Born  Drunk — to  stare,  perhaps,  at  the 
pageant,  to  be  influenced,  however,  whether  they 
wished  it  or  not,  by  the  good  end  of  a  brave 
fighter.  A  stranger  entering  that  quarter  of  the 
town  would  have  thought  that  the  populace  had 
turned  out  for  the  funeral  of  their  prince. 

Such  is  the  extraordinary  parochialism  of  Lon- 
don, a  truth  of  the  metropolis  little  realized  by 
the  casual  observer.  A  few  hundred  yards  away 
from  that  particular  quarter  of  the  town,  no  one 


O.  B.  D.  109 

had  heard  of  Old  Born  Drunk.  In  that  particular 
quarter  he  was  more  famous,  more  watched,  more 
discussed  than  the  greatest  heroes  of  the  nation. 
His  death  was  an  event.  His  salvation  was  a 
profound  impression.  The  quarter  of  the  town 
in  which  he  lived  and  died  feels  to  this  day,  and 
will  feel  through  many  generations,  the  effect  of 
his  salvation. 


V3 
THE  CRIMINAL 

A  GREAT  step  will  be  taken  towards  the 
abolition  of  crime  when  the  State  recog- 
nizes that  criminals  are  human  beings  ex- 
tremely like  ourselves.  It  is  quite  a  fair  thing 
to  say  of  the  mass  of  civilized  mankind  that  their 
primary  objective  in  existence  is  money;  and  it  is 
no  less  fair  to  say  that  the  vast  majority  desire 
to  get  more  money  than  is  necessary  for  their 
actual  needs  with  as  little  labour  as  possible.  In- 
deed, the  whole  spirit  of  modern  politics  and  trade 
organizations,  in  its  ultimate  purpose,  represents 
this  individual  search  after  as  large  a  reward  as 
possible  for  as  little  exertion  as  may  be.  Higher 
wages  and  shorter  hours  of  employment  is  the 
respectable  and  social  formula  of  that  disreputable 
and  anti-social  energy  which  actuates  the  criminal 
mind,  and  expresses  itself  in  the  familiar  formulae 
of  thieves'  philosophy.* 

But  there  is  something  else.     The  criminal  is 

*  Mr.  Havelock  Ellis  quotes  in  his  book  a  few  inscrip- 
tions made  by  convicts  on  the  walls  of  their  cells.  Such  as : 
"  The  Lord  says  it  is  good  to  be  here."  "  Cheer  up,  girls, 
it's  no  use  to  fret."  The  philosophy  of  the  criminal  is  to 
bear  punishment,  and  take  care  not  to  be  caught  next  time. 

110 


THE  CRIMINAL  111 

often  heroic  in  his  character,  superior  to  the  ruck, 
a  man  of  daring,  romance,  and  adventure. 

Mr.  Havelock  Ellis  quotes  endless  authorities 
in  his  book  on  The  Criminal  to  prove  that  those 
whom  we  call  enemies  of  society  are  only  follow- 
ing impulses  which  were  praiseworthy  in  another 
age,  and  which  are  even  in  this  age  practised  by  a 
great  many  people  who  flourish  in  the  front  ranks 
of  our  industrial  civilization.  "  Of  a  very  great 
number  of  modern  habitual  criminals,"  says  one 
authority,  "  it  may  be  said  that  they  have  the 
misfortune  to  live  in  an  age  in  which  their  merits 
are  not  appreciated.  Had  they  been  in  the  world 
a  sufficient  number  of  generations  ago,  the  strong- 
est of  them  might  have  been  chiefs  of  a  tribe. 
.  .  .  With  the  disposition  and  the  habits  of 
uncivilized  men  which  he  has  inherited  from  a 
remote  past,  the  criminal  has  to  live  in  a  country 
where  the  majority  of  the  inhabitants  have  learned 
new  lessons  of  life,  and  where  he  is  regarded 
more  and  more  as  an  outcast  as  he  strives  more 
and  more  to  fulfil  the  yearnings  of  his  nature." 

Another  authority  says,  "  Some  of  them  at  least 
would  have  been  the  ornament  and  the  moral 
aristocracy  of  a  tribe  of  Red  Indians."  Another, 
"  The  criminal  of  to-day  is  the  hero  of  our  old 
legends.  We  put  in  prison  to-day  the  man  who 
would  have  been  the  dreaded  and  respected  chief 
of  a  clan  or  tribe."  Another  exclaims,  "  How 
many  of  Homer's  heroes  would  to-day  be  in  a 


112  THE  CRIMINAL 

convict  prison,  or,  at  all  events,  despised  as  violent 
and  unjust  ?  " 

We  may  also  see  with  but  very  little  effort  of 
observation  that  there  are  a  great  many  public 
men  enjoying  the  reward  of  fortune  at  the  pres- 
ent day  whose  success  in  financial  jugglery  has 
been  won  by  methods  exactly  similar  to  the  crim- 
inal's more  blundering  attempts  after  the  wealth 
of  other  people.  Every  time  a  company-pro- 
moting case  occurs  in  the  law  courts,  although  by 
his  knowledge  of  the  company-law  and  the  diffi- 
culty of  obtaining  evidence  in  such  cases,  the  de- 
fendant may  escape  prison,  every  man  of  affairs 
knows  that  he  is  a  blackguard  of  the  lowest  kind, 
a  criminal  set  upon  getting  other  people's  money 
by  dishonest  means,  and  a  rogue  as  greatly  de- 
serving penal  servitude  as  any  burglar  or  petty 
larcener  in  a  convict  prison. 

As  to  when  criminal  instincts  first  manifest 
themselves,  one  who  had  visited  juvenile  offend- 
ers in  Tothill  Fields  wrote :  "  On  our  return 
.  .  .  we  consulted  with  some  of  our  friends 
as  to  the  various  peccadilloes  of  their  youth,  and 
though  each  we  asked  had  grown  to  be  a  man  of 
some  little  mark  in  the  world,  both  for  intellect 
and  honour,  they,  one  and  all,  confessed  to  having 
committed  in  their  younger  days  many  of  the  very 
'  crimes  '  for  which  the  boys  at  Tothill  Fields  are 
incarcerated.  For  ourselves,  we  will  frankly  con- 
fess, that  at  Westminster  School,  where  we  passed 


THE  CRIMINAL  113 

some  seven  years  of  our  boyhood,  such  acts  were 
daily  perpetrated;  and  yet  if  the  scholars  had  been 
sent  to  the  House  of  Correction,  instead  of  Ox- 
ford or  Cambridge,  to  complete  their  education, 
the  country  would  now  have  seen  many  of  our 
playmates  working  among  the  convicts  in  the 
Dockyards,  rather  than  lending  dignity  to  the 
senate  or  honour  to  the  bench." 

The  story  which  I  am  about  to  tell  in  this  place 
is  the  narrative  of  a  modern  criminal  which  em- 
phasizes everything  that  has  ever  been  written  on 
the  subject  by  anthropologists  and  criminologists ; 
but,  as  the  end  will  prove,  it  shows  that  even  in 
a  mind  penetrated  and  interpenetrated  with  anti- 
social instincts  there  is  some  one  thing  to  which 
appeal  may  be  made,  and  by  which  such  reform 
can  be  effected  as  to  lead  to  a  complete  spiritual 
regeneration.  Psychology  cannot  neglect  this  re- 
generating influence  and  call  itself  a  complete 
science  of  the  human  mind.  Criminologists  and 
prison  reformers  can  effect  little  for  the  perma- 
nent improvement  of  the  habitual  criminal  with- 
out the  employment  of  this  force.  One  power, 
and  one  alone,  can  make  the  habitual  criminal  a 
good  man  in  the  loftiest  and  only  lasting  sense 
of  that  term,  and  that  force  is  religion. 

Born  in  the  slums  of  London,  with  parents 
rather  better  than  the  average,  the  man  in  this 
story,  whom  we  will  call  Joe,  found  himself  with 
the  streets  for  his  only  playground,  and  with  bad 


114  THE  CRIMINAL 

boys  for  the  only  companions  worthy  of  his 
friendship.  He  was  so  enormously  strong,  so 
full  of  daring,  so  conscious  of  restriction  and 
limitation  in  the  narrowness  of  his  circumstance, 
that  he  must  needs  fling  himself  heart  and  soul 
into  the  dare-devil  adventures  of  boys  hungry  for 
a  big  life  and  bold  enough  to  fight  for  it. 

No  Sunday-school  could  hold  such  a  boy;  no 
second-hand  religion  in  a  respectable  church  could 
impress  his  mind  with  the  reality  of  spiritual 
things.  He  found  himself  surrounded  by  bricks 
and  walls,  and  he  wanted  adventure.  He  felt 
himself  capable  of  doing  things  worthy  of  a 
novelette,  and  he  saw  a  policeman  at  the  street 
corner.  It  became  evident  to  him  that  if  he 
wanted  to  fulfil  the  passion  of  his  body,  he  must 
dare  the  police  and  find  his  adventures  in  the 
streets.  To  every  powerful  impulse  of  his  nature 
society  had  set  up  circumambient  opposition.  It 
was  necessary  to  make  war  upon  society. 

He  was  in  prison  at  nine  years  of  age. 

Before  getting  into  prison  he  had  encountered 
the  social  law.  He  had  stolen  more  clumsily 
than  was  his  wont  a  piece  of  meat,  with  the  result 
that  he  got  eight  strokes  with  the  birch-rod.  This 
punishment  did  not  check  him.  He  aimed  at 
higher  game.  To  be  a  petty  thief  did  not  satisfy 
his  buccaneering  ambitions.  He  conceived  the 
idea  of  a  burglary.  The  respectabk  reader, 
shocked  by  the  thought  of  a  child  of  nine  com- 


THE  CRIMINAL  115 

mitting  burglary,  must  ask  himself  whether  at 
that  age  he  was  not  stealing  sugar  from  the  side- 
board cupboard  or  candied-peel  from  the  larder. 
He  must  remember,  too,  that  this  child  of  nine 
had  been  marched  triumphantly  to  a  police-court, 
had  had  the  honour  of  appearing  before  a  magis- 
trate, and  had  been  hardened  by  a  birching.  If, 
after  this  experience,  he  had  played  the  lamb, 
what  would  the  young  lions  of  the  slums  have 
thought  about  him?  Be  it  remembered  that  this 
boy  was  lion-hearted,  bold,  daring,  brave,  strong, 
and  indifferent  to  punishment. 

I  tried  to  discover  what  had  worked  in  his  mind 
at  this  time,  and  he  could  only  tell  me  that  he 
wanted  to  be  daring,  wanted  to  feel  himself  big. 
The  meek  children  of  that  neighbourhood  went 
to  Sunday-school;  he  regarded  them  with  con- 
tempt; a  certain  section  were  neither  good  nor 
bad,  neither  respectable  nor  disreputable,  they 
did  not  interest  him,  did  not  satisfy  him;  others, 
the  very  elect,  brave,  bold,  dauntless,  and  tre- 
mendously masculine,  roused  in  his  mind  the 
greatest  force  in  childhood — admiration.  He 
wanted  to  be  like  these  fine  fellows.  He  not  only 
wanted  to  feel  that  he  was  clever  at  stealing,  but 
also  that  he  feared  nothing,  neither  policeman, 
judge,  prison,  nor  hangman's  rope — like  these 
bloods  of  the  slum. 

It  is  necessary  to  know  something  of  a  boy's 
life  in  the  slums — its  conditions,  its  dullness,  its 


116  THE  CRIMINAL 

surrounding  influences,  and  its  limitations — to 
understand  the  swift  growth  and  vigorous  devel- 
opment of  criminality  in  the  minds  of  quite  young 
children. 

Boys  of  a  strong  animal  temperament — whose 
innocence  has  long  departed,  and  who  inhabit 
often  enough  the  same  bedroom  as  their  fathers 
and  mothers — find  themselves  in  streets  full  of 
shops  and  barrows  where  there  is  a  profusion  of 
everything  the  body  can  desire,  even  a  profusion 
of  things  coveted  by  low  and  sensual  minds — 
such  as  the  barrow  of  vicious  photographs,  the 
empty  shop  employed  as  a  penny-gaff  for  ex- 
hibiting the  nude,  and  those  miserable  penny- 
in-the-slot  machines  whose  pictures  are  so  vile 
and  so  vulgar.  To  enjoy  these  things  money  is 
necessary,  and  the  only  romantic  way  of  getting 
money  is  by  stealing;  the  only  way  of  getting 
food  and  tobacco  and  pictures  without  money  is 
by  stealing  them. 

The  homes  from  which  these  boys  come  into 
the  streets,  where  so  much  wealth  is  displayed, 
are  bad  enough  as  sleeping-places,  but  as  living- 
rooms  they  are  quite  horrible.  To  a  high-spirited 
boy  conscious  of  desire  for  a  full-blooded  life  of 
adventure  they  are  impossible.  He  must  have 
movement,  the  excitement  of  danger,  the  enjoy- 
ment of  forbidden  pleasures. 

"  Have  you  ever  realized,"  Mr.  Thomas 
Holmes  once  asked  me,  "  what  it  is  to  live  below 


THE  CRIMINAL  117 

the  poverty  line?  Not  in  the  family  of  the  well- 
to-do  mechanic,  with  his  club  and  his  union;  but 
right  down — down  in  the  kennels  and  cellars  and 
gutters  ?  Think  what  your  manhood  would  have 
been  if  your  childhood  had  passed  in  a  garret, 
where  your  mother  made  matchboxes  for  four- 
teen hours  a  day,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week 
earned  nine  shillings.  In  that  room  you  would 
have  eaten  your  meals — save  the  mark! — toiled 
over  the  paste-pot  before  you  went  to  school  and 
after  you  came  from  school,  and  then  you  would 
have  crawled  into  a  corner  to  sleep  on  a  mattress 
with  the  rest  of  the  family.  That  dingy  world 
would  have  been  your  world,  your  environ- 
ment." * 

Then  there  is  this  most  important  factor  to  bear 
in  mind — the  vanity  of  the  daring  child,  the 
swagger  of  the  masculine  boy  which  becomes  so 
easily  the  well-known  vanity  of  the  criminal. 
Hear  Mr.  Havelock  Ellis  on  this  head : 

"  The  vanity  of  criminals  is  at  once  an  intel- 
lectual and  an  emotional  fact.  It  witnesses  at 
once  to  their  false  estimate  of  life  and  of  them- 
selves, and  to  their  egotistic  delight  in  admiration. 
They  share  this  character  with  a  large  proportion 
of  artists  and  literary  men,  though,  as  Lombroso 
remarks,  they  decidedly  excel  them  in  this  respect. 
The  vanity  of  the  artist  and  literary  man  marks 
the  abnormal  element,  the  tendency  in  them  to 
*  Master  Workers. 


118  THE  CRIMINAL 

degeneration.  It  reveals  in  them  the  weak  points 
of  a  mental  organization,  which  at  other  points 
is  highly  developed.  Vanity  may  exist  in  the 
well-developed  ordinary  man,  but  it  is  unobtru- 
sive; in  its  extreme  forms  it  marks  the  abnormal 
man,  the  man  of  unbalanced  mental  organization, 
artist  or  criminal. 

"  George  Borrow,  who  was  so  keen  a  student 
of  men,  has  some  remarks  on  the  vanity  of  crim- 
inals in  regard  to  dress :  '  There  is  not  a  set  of 
people  in  the  world  more  vain  than  robbers  in 
general,  more  fond  of  cutting  a  figure  whenever 
they  have  an  opportunity,  and  of  attracting  the 
eyes  of  their  fellow-creatures  by  the  gallantry  of 
their  appearance.  The  famous  Sheppard  of  olden 
times  delighted  in  sporting  a  suit  of  Genoese 
velvet,  and  when  he  appeared  in  public  generally 
wore  a  silver-hilted  sword  at  his  side;  whilst 
Vaux  and  Hayward,  heroes  of  a  later  day,  were 
the  best-dressed  men  on  the  pave  of  London. 
Many  of  the  Italian  bandits  go  splendidly  deco- 
rated, and  the  very  gypsy  robber  has  a  feeling 
for  the  charms  of  dress;  the  cap  alone  of  the 
Haram  Pasha,  the  leader  of  the  cannibal  gypsy 
band  which  infested  Hungary  towards  the  con- 
clusion of  the  century,  was  adorned  with  gold  and 
jewels  of  the  value  of  four  thousand  guilders. 
Observe,  ye  vain  and  frivolous,  how  vanity  and 
crime  harmonize.  The  Spanish  robbers  are  as 
fond  of  this  species  of  display  as  their  brethren 


THE  CRIMINAL  119 

of  other  lands,  and,  whether  in  prison  or  out  of 
it,  are  never  so  happy  as  when,  decked  out  in  a 
profusion  of  white  linen,  they  can  loll  in  the  sun, 
or  walk  jauntily  up  and  down.' '  He  then  de- 
scribes the  principal  features  of  Spanish  robber 
foppery. 

"  More  significant  and  even  more  widely  spread 
is  the  moral  vanity  of  criminals.  '  In  ordinary 
society,'  said  Vidocq,  '  infamy  is  dreaded;  among 
a  body  of  prisoners  the  only  shame  is  not  to  be 
infamous;  to  be  an  escarpe  (assassin)  is  the 
highest  praise.'  This  is  universally  true  among 
every  group  of  murderers  or  of  thieves,  the 
author  of  a  large  criminal  transaction  is  regarded 
by  all  his  fellows  as  a  hero,  and  he  looks  down 
upon  the  others  with  contempt;  the  man  who  has 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  imprisoned  for  a  small 
or,  in  the  opinion  of  criminal  society,  disreputable 
offence,  represents  himself  as  the  author  of  some 
crime  of  magnitude. 

"  A  Russian  youth  of  nineteen  killed  an  entire 
family.  When  he  heard  that  all  St.  Petersburg 
was  talking  of  him,  he  said,  *  Now  my  school- 
fellows will  see  how  unfair  it  was  of  them  to 
say  that  I  should  never  be  heard  of.'  "  * 

The  Abbe  Moreau,  describing  the  arrival  of  a 

great  criminal  at  the  prison  of  La  Grande  Ro- 

quette,  says  that  he  is  immediately  surrounded, 

though  the  curiosity  remains  respectful,  and  is 

*The  Criminal,  by  Havelock  Ellis. 


120  THE  CRIMINAL 

a  king  in  the  midst  of  his  subjects;  "  envious 
looks  are  cast  at  those  privileged  individuals  who 
have  succeeded  in  placing  themselves  near  him; 
they  listen  eagerly  for  his  slightest  word;  they 
do  not  speak  their  admiration  for  fear  of  inter- 
rupting him,  and  he  knows  that  he  dominates  and 
fascinates  them." 

Essential  to  a  true  understanding  of  the  young 
criminal  is  the  full  apprehension  of  that  immense 
respect  with  which  great  crime  inspires  the  daring 
members  of  society  whose  blood  clamours  for  ad- 
venture, whose  bodies  are  insufficiently  nourished, 
and  whose  minds  are  insufficiently  subjected  to 
discipline. 

When  Joe  came  back  to  his  mates  from  that 
first  birching  he  was  very  little  wickeder  than  the 
average  schoolboy;  but  mark  the  swift  growth 
of  the  criminal. 

His  vanity  to  appear  a  fine  fellow  in  the  eyes  of 
his  rough  mates  led  him  not  only  to  make  light 
of  his  disgrace  and  its  sufferings,  but  to  propose 
things  a  great  deal  more  daring  and  dangerous. 
He  wanted  to  be  a  burglar  before  he  was  ten 
years  of  age. 

Before  he  committed  burglary,  in  the  technical 
sense  of  that  term,  he  shone  as  a  hero  among  his 
fellows  in  other  forms  of  crime  requiring  swift- 
ness of  execution  and  no  little  daring.  It  was 
one  of  his  favourite  tricks  to  enter  a  shop  which 
he  had  reconnoitred  with  the  cunning  of  a  Red 


THE  CRIMINAL  121 

Indian,  and  to  vault  the  counter,  fill  both  hands 
from  the  till,  and  make  his  escape  before  the 
shopkeeper  had  risen  from  his  chair  in  the  back 
parlour.  Another  of  his  ways  of  getting  money 
was  to  obtain  goods  at  various  shops  in  his 
mother's  name,  and  to  sell  them  at  half-price  to 
other  people.  He  made  a  habit  of  playing  high- 
wayman to  boys  sent  on  errands  by  their  mothers, 
forcing  those  poor  frightened  children  to  deliver 
up  either  their  money  or  their  packages. 

To  return  tamely  home  after  some  of  these  es- 
capades not  only  was  dangerous  but  dreadfully 
uninteresting.  He  became  one  of  a  gang  who 
slept  out — slept  either  in  common  lodging-houses 
or  in  the  open  streets.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
ashamed  when  a  policeman  laid  him  by  the  heels 
and  he  went  to  prison. 

It  was  at  the  age  of  fourteen  that  he  committed 
his  first  technical  burglary. 

There  was  a  jeweller's  shop  in  the  neighbour- 
hood which  exhibited  a  tempting  show  of  silver- 
plate  in  its  windows.  This  shop  occupied  a  cor- 
ner, and  a  garden  wall  alone  separated  Joe  from 
its  back  premises.  To  climb  that  wall  at  night,  to 
enter  the  house,  and  to  get  away  with  some  of  the 
silver-plate,  seemed  to  him  a  perfectly  easy  and 
quite  a  delightful  adventure.  He  worked  it  all 
out  with  some  of  his  mates,  and  dreamed  great 
dreams  of  glory  till  the  night  came  round  for  the 
crime. 


122  THE  CRIMINAL 

Everything  favoured  these  wild  boys — a  dark 
night,  empty  streets,  an  absence  of  police.  Joe 
climbed  the  wall,  disappeared  on  the  other  side, 
and  his  mates  waited  in  the  street  to  receive  the 
plunder  when  he  returned.  As  though  born  to 
the  job  of  housebreaking,  Joe  found  it  easy  to 
force  a  window,  to  raise  the  sash  without  making 
a  noise,  to  enter  the  premises,  and  find  his  way 
in  the  dark  to  the  shop  and  the  silver.  He  made 
his  haul — listened  to  hear  if  anyone  was  stirring 
— and  then  stole  out  through  the  window,  crossed 
the  garden,  and  climbed  the  wall.  All  was  per- 
fectly still  and  silent.  He  saw  figures  in  the 
darkness  beneath  him,  descended  into  their  midst, 
and  found  himself  held  by  four  policemen. 

He  was  not  then  fourteen  years  of  age,  and  the 
law  sentenced  him  to  fifteen  months'  imprison- 
ment. 

The  birching  was  a  light  matter,  but  fifteen 
months  of  prison  fare,  prison  solitude,  and  prison 
discipline,  this  was  terrible  to  the  boy.  He 
did  not  feel  any  horror  of  himself,  any  fear  of 
hell,  any  desire  for  goodness,  but  in  his  prison  cell 
this  London  boy  determined  that  he  would  give  up 
his  mates,  mend  his  ways,  and  live  a  life  in  which 
the  police  could  never  interfere.  He  tells  me  he 
suffered  terrible  remorse,  and  used  to  cry  in  his 
cell;  but  when  I  question  him  it  is  to  discover 
that  he  felt  only  the  inconvenience  of  prison,  the 
wretchedness  of  his  fare,  and  the  horrible,  mad- 


THE  CRIMINAL  128 

dening  deprivation  of  his  liberty.  A  boy  who  has 
ever  endured  three  hours'  "  detention  "  on  a  half- 
holiday  may  guess  what  this  strong-limbed,  daring 
lad  of  fourteen  suffered  during  those  dragging 
fifteen  months  of  prison. 

But  when  he  came  out,  there  was  nothing  in  his 
heart  except  bitterness  and  rage.  Far  from  mend- 
ing him,  far  from  creating  in  him  any  desire  for 
goodness,  uprightness,  and  a  life  of  useful  work, 
prison  had  only  made  the  lad  a  deadly  hater  of 
law,  and  a  sworn  enemy  of  society.  He  deter- 
mined to  plot  against  society  and  to  beat  it  at  its 
own  game. 

Within  three  months  of  his  release  he  was 
arrested  and  sent  to  a  truant  school.  This  pun- 
ishment also  failed  to  reform  his  character.  He 
came  out  from  it  to  receive  in  quick  succession 
nine  sentences,  each  of  a  month,  for  thefts  of 
various  kinds. 

He  was  now  marked  down  as  incorrigible, 
ticketed  by  the  police  as  one  of  the  criminal 
classes.  People  pointed  at  him  in  the  streets, 
policemen  gave  him  a  look  as  he  went  by,  some- 
times followed  him. 

He  now  began  to  work  as  a  real  burglar, 
associating  with  notorious  cracksmen.  He  heard 
in  one  of  the  public-houses  he  frequented  of  a 
man,  the  owner  of  a  laundry,  who  kept  all  his 
money  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  which 
he  always  hung  at  night  on  the  peg  of  his  bed- 


124  THE  CRIMINAL 

room  door.  Sometimes,  it  was  said,  that  pocket 
contained  as  much  as  fifteen  or  twenty  pounds. 

Joe  studied  the  house,  made  himself  acquainted 
with  its  plan,  and  one  night  set  out  to  pick  the 
pocket  of  that  overcoat  hanging  from  the  bedroom 
door.  His  account  of  this  crime  made  one  feel 
something  of  the  terror  associated  with  desperate 
burglars.  He  is  a  man  above  the  medium  height, 
of  a  thin  and  wasted  frame,  but  with  broad 
shoulders  and  a  large  greyish  face;  the  forehead 
low,  the  head  round,  the  eyes  big,  searching,  men- 
acing; the  voice  full  of  a  quick  decision  and  a 
certain  hard  brutality. 

"  I  slipped  out  one  night  from  a  public-house," 
he  told  me,  "  walked  into  dark  streets  until  I  had 
dodged  all  the  police  that  were  watching  me, 
and  then  made  my  way  to  the  laundryman's 
house.  There  was  a  wall  that  a  cat  could  climb 
easier  than  I  could,  but  I  nipped  over  it,  and  lay 
in  the  garden,  listening  to  hear  if  I  had  disturbed 
anybody.  Not  a  sound.  I  went  to  the  back  of 
the  house,  found  a  window  that  was  all  right, 
opened  it  with  only  a  creak  or  two,  waited  on  the 
sill  for  five  or  ten  minutes  to  hear  if  anybody  was 
stirring,  and  then  stepped  quietly  inside.  Quietly ! 
I  went  bang  into  a  bath  of  water,  stumbled,  fell, 
and  made  such  a  clatter  that  I  woke  the  people 
up.  I  heard  the  wife  say,  '  There's  someone 
downstairs ! '  And  I  heard  the  man  say,  '  Go 
along  with  you;  it's  only  a  cat.'  The  wife  per- 


THE  CRIMINAL  125 

sisted.  The  husband  told  her  to  shut  up.  I 
stood  where  I  was  in  the  dark  bath-house  for  a 
solid  hour.  Then  I  moved,  groping  my  way.  I 
found  the  hall,  crept  to  the  stairs,  and  listened. 
Nothing  could  be  heard,  except  a  clock  ticking.  I 
waited,  and  then  went  softly  up  the  stairs.  When 
I  reached  the  landing  I  could  hear  the  man  and 
woman  snoring — like  a  couple  of  pigs!  I  re- 
member I  felt  disgusted  by  the  noise  they  made. 
Lor',  I  never  heard  anything  like  it — upon  my 
word,  it  was  just  like  a  couple  of  pigs.  I  stood 
listening  to  them  at  that  bedroom  door — less  than 
an  inch  of  wood  between  me  and  the  overcoat — 
for  another  hour.  Then  I  put  my  fingers  round 
the  handle,  turned  it  very  gently,  and  opened  the 
door.  The  snoring  sounded  much  louder.  There 
was  no  light  in  the  room.  I  hadn't  disturbed  them 
in  the  least.  I  waited  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
slipped  my  free  hand  round  the  door,  felt  for 
the  overcoat,  found  the  bag  of  cash,  drew  it  out, 
slipped  it  in  my  pocket,  and  shut  the  door  as 
quietly  as  I  had  opened  it,  waited  a  few  minutes 
to  be  certain  I  hadn't  disturbed  them,  and  then 
very  slowly  went  down  the  stairs.  I  gave  the 
bath  a  wide  berth,  got  out  of  the  window,  and 
made  off. 

"  There  was  twenty-one  pounds  in  the  bag,  and 
I  went  large.  I  bought  myself  a  new  suit  of 
clothes,  gave  the  money  to  a  pal  to  keep  for  me, 
and  kept  just  enough  for  drinks  and  cigars  till 


126  THE  CRIMINAL 

the  affair  should  blow  over.     But  four  days  after- 
wards a  policeman  came  to  me.     *  Joe,'  he  said, 

*  where  did  you  get  that  suit  of  clothes  from  ? ' 

*  My  cousin  gave  it  to  me,'  I  answered.     Not  a 
bit  of  use.     They  had  me,  and  I  got  a  stretch." 

A  few  days  after  he  came  out  he  was  standing 
one  day  looking  into  a  jeweller's  shop,  when  a 
policeman  gripped  his  arm  suddenly  from  behind 
and  marched  him  off  to  the  station.  In  his  pocket 
were  found  some  housebreaking  tools.  He  was 
sent  to  prison. 

All  that  he  suffered  in  these  imprisonments,  so 
far  as  his  inarticulate  subconsciousness  can  ex- 
press itself,  appears  to  have  been  a  remorse  of  the 
stomach.  Every  Sunday,  half-starved,  forsaken, 
and  silent  in  his  prison  cell,  he  reflected  on  his 
brothers  at  the  family  dinner-table  in  his  father's 
house.  They  were  not  only  at  liberty;  they  were 
enjoying  a  Sunday  dinner.  His  imagination 
brought  into  his  cell  the  rich  odours  of  beef 
gravy,  the  flavour  of  baked  potatoes,  the  taste  of 
white  bread,  the  pleasant  smell  of  hot  roast  beef 
fresh  and  sputtering  from  the  fire.  He  tells  me 
that  he  was  not  maddened  by  this  memory,  but 
saddened  to  tears.  He  used  to  cry  softly  to  him- 
self, swallowing  great  lumps  in  his  throat,  and 
thinking  of  all  that  he  missed  by  being  in  prison. 
There  are  many  tears  shed  in  gaols;  these  places 
indeed  are  houses  of  weeping,  and  tears  for  a 
Sunday  dinner  are  not  perhaps  in  the  sight  of 


THE  CRIMINAL  127 

the  spirits  vastly  different  from  tears  of  a  more 
religious  contrition.  When  this  man  wept  for 
roast  beef  and  fried  potatoes,  he  wept  for  his  past 
life,  just  as  Verlaine,  with  a  greater  gift  of  ex- 
pression, wept  in  the  cells  of  his  French  prison: 

Le  ciel  est,  par-dessus  le  toit, 

Si  bleu,  si  calme ! 
Un  arbre,  par-dessus  le  toit, 

Berce  sa  palme. 

La  cloche  dans  le  ciel  qu'on  voit 

Doucement  tinte. 
Un  oiseau  sur  1'arbre  qu'on  voit 

Chante  sa  plainte. 

Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu,  la  vie  est  la, 

Simple  et  tranquille. 
Cette  paisible  rumeur-la 

Vient  de  la  ville. 

— Qu'as-tu  fait,  o  toi  que  voila, 

Pleurant  sans  cesse, 
Dis,  qu'as-tu  fait,  toi  que  voila, 

De  ta  jeunesse? 

Weeping  almost  without  ceasing,  and  thinking 
of  his  brothers  in  their  father's  house,  the  London 
burglar,  like  the  Parisian  poet,  was  really  weeping 
for  his  wasted  youth.  He  got  so  far  in  his  re- 
morse as  to  pray,  and  so  real  was  his  bitterness — 
even  if  inspired  by  a  Sunday  dinner — that  his 
prayers  were  always  for  death.  He  wanted  to 
get  out  of  a  world  which  seemed  to  have  no  use 
for  him,  a  world  whose  affairs  appeared  to  be 


128  THE  CRIMINAL 

governed  by  policemen  who  had  a  "  down  "  on 
him.  All  through  his  imprisonment  he  had  these 
fits  of  remorse,  and  prayed  to  die. 

Never  once — and  in  this  all  the  prisoners  I 
have  ever  talked  to  bear  him  out — never  once  did 
a  prison  chaplain  visit  his  cell,  make  an  appeal  to 
his  higher  nature,  or  show  that  interest  in  his  life, 
whether  he  swam  or  sank,  which  an  expert  like 
General  Booth  tells  us  is  the  very  first  step  towards 
the  reclamation  of  the  outcast.  I  asked  him  his 
opinion  of  the  Church  services,  and  he  said  that 
they  were  regarded  as  opportunities  for  conversa- 
tion, that  the  words  of  the  prayers  sounded  like  a 
mockery,  that  singing  hymns  was  pleasant  and 
popular,  that  the  sermons  were  unintelligible.  In 
the  interviews  which  a  prisoner  is  supposed  to 
have  with  the  chaplain  before  release,  he  was  ad- 
dressed always  in  the  same  words  (others  bear 
him  out  in  this,  too),  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  see 
you  back  here  in  a  month  or  two  ?  "  Once  he 
turned  round  on  the  chaplain  and  said,  "  Yes,  and 
it  won't  be  your  fault  if  you  see  me  back  here 
all  my  life."  He  was  conscious  that  the  chaplain 
ought  to  have  been  able  to  help  him.  A  strange 
conviction  in  the  mind  of  such  a  man. 

We  have  now  to  relate  something  concerning 
the  police  which  we  must  preface  with  a  caution 
to  the  reader.  It  is  not  intended  here  to  argue 
that  the  treatment  experienced  by  Joe,  and  some 
others,  is  in  the  least  typical  of  the  London  police. 


THE  CRIMINAL  129 

Many  of  these  men  help  old  prisoners,  and  are 
kind  to  them  in  divers  ways.  But  this  is  truth — 
let  a  man  inspire  two  or  three  of  the  police  in  his 
neighbourhood  with  hate,  and  that  man  may  be 
marked  down  for  ceaseless  persecution  and  most 
cruel  tyranny.  Whenever  men  of  the  class  of 
policemen  get  a  "  down  "  on  a  man — as  for  in- 
stance, rough-riding  corporals  in  a  cavalry  regi- 
ment on  some  unfortunate  recruit — they  some- 
times use  their  power,  and  exert  their  authority 
to  make  that  man's  life  a  hell — in  their  own 
phrase,  to  break  him.  I  do  not  say  in  the  case 
of  the  police  that  they  have  not  some  excuse  for 
this  conduct — they  are  brave  men  exposed  to  most 
cowardly  and  brutal  assaults — but  their  vengeance 
is  certainly  a  danger  and  a  great  expense  to  the 
State.  I  fear  that  this  private  execution  of  venge- 
ance still  goes  on;  I  am  sure  that  the  criminal 
class  is  made  worse  by  it;  I  am  convinced  that 
the  heads  of  police  are  unaware  of  it;  moreover, 
I  feel  that  the  police  who  do  these  things  consider 
themselves  justified  in  their  action,  and  believe 
that  in  executing  private  vengeance  they  are  fur- 
thering the  cause  of  law  and  order  quite  as  much 
as  getting  even  with  their  oppressors.  One  is  not 
by  any  means  making  a  general  attack  upon  the 
London  police. 

When  Joe  came  out  from  prison  he  went,  with 
the  money  he  had  earned  by  prison  labour,  and 
asked  his  father  to  come  for  a  drink.  The  old 


130  THE  CRIMINAL 

man  refused.  Joe  went  to  the  tavern,  bought 
himself  a  drink,  purchased  a  little  gin  for  his 
mother  and  a  few  cigars  for  his  father,  and  re- 
turned home  with  these  peace-offerings.  Half 
an  hour  afterwards  he  was  taking  the  air,  and 
enjoying  the  sweets  of  liberty. 

A  policeman  crossed  the  road  and  stopped  him. 
"  Joe,"  he  said,  in  a  kindly  voice,  "  an  old  gentle- 
man has  had  his  watch  pinched;  the  description 
given  answers  to  you;  the  inspector  thinks  you 
can  clear  yourself  all  right,  but  wants  you  to 
step  up  to  the  station  and  give  an  account  of  your 
movements." 

"  Why,  I've  only  just  come  out !  "  said  Joe. 

"  I  know;  but  the  description  answers." 

Joe  walked  easily  and  cheerfully  beside  the 
policeman,  laughing  at  those  who  turned  and 
stared,  thinking  that  Joe  was  caught  again.  As 
he  entered  the  station  the  policeman  suddenly 
gripped  his  arm,  and  ran  him  before  the  inspector. 
"  I  charge  this  man,"  he  said,  "  with  drunkenness 
and  begging." 

When  he  was  in  the  cell  two  or  three  constables 
entered.  Joe  had  not  handled  the  police  force 
gently  in  the  past,  and  he  had  experienced  before 
police  retribution  in  the  station  cell.  But  now  he 
was  innocent. 

The  policemen  set  about  him  with  their  fists  and 
feet,  and  did  not  leave  him  until  he  was  bleeding, 
bruised,  and  almost  unconscious. 


THE  CRIMINAL  131 

I  asked  him  why  he  did  not  hit  back,  or  insist 
upon  seeing  the  inspector.  His  answer  chimed 
exactly  with  the  comment  of  another  old  gaol-bird 
who  was  present,  "  What  would  have  been  the 
use?"  They  both  smiled  at  my  innocence  in 
asking  such  a  question. 

Then  these  two  men  told  me  of  how  on  many 
occasions  they  had  been  the  victims  of  police 
"  justice,"  of  how  on  many  occasions  the  door  of 
the  station  cell  had  opened,  and  two,  three,  and 
four  men  had  entered  to  pound  them  unmerci- 
fully,— many  occasions.  Those  nights  in  the  cell 
of  the  police-station  are  dreaded  by  the  marked 
man  as  much  as  any  part  of  the  prison  treatment, 
except  "  solitary."  The  utter  uselessness  of  com- 
plaint, the  necessity  of  taking  the  punishment 
"  lying  down,"  the  feeling  of  its  injustice  which 
stirs  in  their  blood — this  makes  them  bitter 
against  the  police,  and  there  is  no  bitterness  in  the 
world  like  an  old  convict's  for  the  force  of  law 
and  order. 

When  Joe  came  out  from  imprisonment  which 
followed  upon  this  shameful  arrest,  he  was  a  man 
with  but  one  thought  in  his  soul — murder.  As  he 
"  came  down  the  street "  he  encountered  the 
policeman  who  had  put  him  away.  The  man 
laughed,  and  said,  "  I  did  you  nicely,  Joe,  didn't 
I  ?  Cheer  up !  I'll  have  you  again  before  long." 

"  Not  without  cause,  you !  "  said  Joe,  and 

walked  on. 


132  THE  CRIMINAL 

He  waited  till  dark,  and  then  went  to  a  street 
with  iron  railings  in  front  of  the  areas.  A  blow 
with  his  knee  broke  a  railing  in  the  middle;  a 
wrench  with  his  strong  hands  at  the  spike,  and 
he  had  drawn  it  out  from  the  cross-bar.  This 
weapon  he  slipped  inside  his  trousers,  and  went  to 
meet  the  constable  who  had  put  him  away. 

The  man  came  along;  Joe  hid  in  a  doorway. 
The  man  drew  level  with  Joe.  Out  came  the  iron 
bar,  and  with  one  smashing  blow,  as  the  constable 
passed,  one  blow  which  broke  the  helmet  to  pieces 
and  cracked  the  man's  skull  like  an  egg-shell, 
Joe's  enemy  lay  senseless  on  the  pavement. 

For  this  crime  he  received  a  long  stretch  at 
Dartmoor. 

He  told  me  that  he  has  never  suffered  so  much 
in  his  life  as  he  suffered  during  solitary  confine- 
ment. He  said  that  no  words  can  express  the 
torture  of  that  punishment.  A  flogging  is  bad, 
very  bad,  but  it  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the 
maddening  horror  of  solitary  confinement.  A 
diet  of  bread  and  water  wastes  the  body  to  the 
point  of  extremest  weakness;  and  in  this  pitiable 
condition  of  physical  collapse  the  mind  has  to 
endure  solitude,  silence,  semi-darkness.  One  day 
of  this  punishment  is  hard  to  support,  but  two, 
three,  four — the  hardest  brute  in  the  world  is 
reduced  to  whining  for  mercy. 

I  asked  him  what  a  man  does  in  solitary  con- 
finement, and  never,  so  long  as  I  live,  shall  I  for- 


THE  CRIMINAL  133 

get  his  answer.  It  was  an  answer  given  not  in 
words,  but  in  a  posture.  He  sat  forward  on  the 
edge  of  his  chair,  rested  an  elbow  on  his  right 
knee,  placed  his  fingers  against  his  cheek,  and 
stared  at  nothingness. 

"  It's  like  that  all  the  time,"  said  another  gaol- 
bird, who  was  present,  studying  Joe's  attitude 
with  a  critical  and  approving  glance ;  "  and  some- 
times it's  like  this."  He  let  his  body  lean  for- 
ward, set  both  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  with  his 
hands  on  either  side  of  his  face,  the  fingers  almost 
meeting  over  the  head,  stared  down  at  the  floor. 

Joe  said  to  me,  "  All  day  long  like  that—on 
bread  and  water.  No  light,  no  air,  no  sound  of  a 
voice,  no  sound  of  a  step,  nothing!  I  reckon  a 
man  would  rather  be  hanged  than  go  through 
solitary." 

This  man,  whose  story  will  disclose  a  nature 
very  far  from  indifferent  to  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy, whose  brain  is  acute,  observing,  and  re- 
flective, and  whose  whole  life  is  now  given  to 
saving  the  criminal  classes,  assures  me  that  every 
fresh  imprisonment  only  hardened  him,  and  de- 
clares that  no  one  who  has  really  studied  prisons, 
with  a  knowledge  of  prisoners,  can  believe  that 
imprisonment  has  any  other  effect  than  this  terri- 
ble, cruel,  and  costly  effect  of  hardening  and 
making  worse. 

He  speaks  with  authority.  This  man  who  is 
grey  and  looks  so  old  is  four-and-thirty.  Out  of 


THE  CRIMINAL 

his  thirty-four  years  of  life,  seventeen  have  been 
spent  in  prison. 

This  seems  a  suitable  place  to  quote  Thomas 
Holmes  on  our  prison  system :  "It  is  the  most 
senseless,  brutal,  and  wicked  of  all  human  schemes 
for  checking  crime.  Appallingly  stupid.  When 
I  think  of  men  I  know  sitting  in  their  dark  cells 
at  night — they  put  them  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock ! — 
I  can  almost  cry  with  the  pain  of  it.  If  the  idea 
is  simply  to  punish,  the  present  system  is  admir- 
able; it  is  so  supremely  devilish.  But,  I  take  it, 
the  State,  when  it  gets  hold  of  a  man  who  has 
broken  one  of  its  laws,  desires  to  send  him  back 
to  the  world  as  speedily  as  possible,  to  work  hon- 
estly and  truly  for  the  nation.  But  what  does  the 
prison  do?  It  crucifies  the  man,  and  hardens 
him  past  redemption.  It  intensifies  his  bitterness 
against  society,  and  adds  a  horrible  darkness  to 
the  chaos  of  his  moral  nature.  Do  you  know 
these  words  of  a  prisoner? — they  are  worth  re- 
membering : '  I  know  how  many  nails  there  are  in 
the  floor  within  reach  of  my  eye,  and  the  number 
of  the  seams  also;  I  am  familiar  with  the  stained 
spots,  the  splintered  furrows,  the  scratches,  and 
the  uneven  surface  of  the  planks.  The  floor  is 
a  well-known  map  to  me — the  map  of  monotony 
— and  I  con  its  queer  geography  all  day  and  at 
night  in  dreary  dreams.  I  know  the  blotches 
on  the  whitened  wall  as  well  as  I  know  the  warts 
and  moles  on  the  hopeless  faces  opposite  me. 


THE  CRIMINAL  135 

My  mind  is  a  mill  that  grinds  nothing.  Give  me 
work — work  for  heart  and  mind — or  my  heart 
will  lose  its  last  spark  of  hope,  and  my  brain  its 
last  remnant  of  reason.' 

"  Think  of  those  words  for  a  night  or  two,  as 
you  move  freely  about  the  rooms  of  your  home. 
And  think  of  them  when  you  wake  to  an  open 
window  and  the  freshness  of  a  new  morning. 
Think  of  them.  And  there  are  thousands  of  men 
penned  in  like  this — whose  minds  are  a  mill  that 
grind  nothing — every  day  in  a  Christian  year. 
It  is  not  sentimental  rubbish;  it  isn't  hysterical. 
Because,  don't  you  see,  a  criminal  is  a  human 
being,  and  in  many  instances  of  a  most  amazingly 
complex  and  bewildering  fashion." 

Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  who  is  interested  in  this 
question  of  prisons,  and  has  made  some  study  of 
it,  asks,  "  Are  we  satisfied  with  our  treatment  of 
criminals  ?  Are  we,  as  a  civilized  people,  content 
to  grow  a  perennial  class  of  habitual  criminals, 
and  to  keep  them  in  check  only  by  devices  appro- 
priate to  savages:  hunting  them,  flogging  them, 
locking  them  up,  and  exterminating  them?  " 

At  Dartmoor,  Joe  found  something  which  miti- 
gated the  horrors  of  his  existence.  In  prison 
there  is  rather  more  thieving,  I  am  told,  than 
outside.  Every  convict  is  on  the  look  out  for 
"pinching"  something;  it  breaks  the  monotony 
merely  to  look  out  for  the  chance  of  stealing, 
just  as  a  fisherman  will  cheerfully  go  all  day 


136  THE  CRIMINAL 

without  getting  a  bite.  But  seldom  is  the  con- 
vict's look  out  unrewarded.  He  can  steal  in  the 
kitchen,  in  the  shops,  in  the  cells.  Also  he  can 
trade  with  warders,  many  of  whom  (the  great 
majority,  I  am  told),  either  out  of  goodness 
of  heart  or  to  add  to  their  wages,  smuggle  in 
food  and  plug  tobacco  for  the  convicts.  All 
this,  as  I  say,  breaks  the  monotony  of  prison 
routine. 

One  day,  as  he  was  working  in  the  corridors  of 
the  prison,  Joe  saw  a  handkerchief  in  one  of  the 
cells.  He  "  pinched  "  it.  Some  little  time  after- 
wards that  handkerchief  came  in  useful.  He  was 
digging  with  a  gang  of  convicts  on  the  bogs  when 
he  caught  sight  of  two  little  mice,  huddling  away 
to  escape  detection.  Swift  as  thought — I  have 
never  seen  man  move  his  hands  quicker  than 
Joe — he  bagged  the  mice;  wrapped  them  in  his 
handkerchief,  and  stuffed  the  booty  under  the 
back  of  his  shirt.  He  got  back  to  his  cell  with 
his  find  undetected. 

For  sixteen  months  they  delighted  the  life  of 
this  habitual  criminal — those  two  little  mice.  In 
the  loneliness  of  his  cell  he  tamed  them,  taught 
them  tricks,  made  them  fond  of  him.  For  their 
sakes  he  stole  from  the  kitchen  and  saved  crumbs 
from  his  own  meals.  Their  sleeping-place  was  a 
bag  hanging  from  the  wall  of  his  cell.  In  this 
bag  they  produced  a  family,  soon  necessitating 
greater  thefts  from  the  kitchen,  and  the  entire 


THE  CRIMINAL  137 

family  was  removed  from  prison  when  Joe  got 
his  liberty  and  taken  back  to  his  father. 

Some  of  the  prisoners  tame  starlings,  crows, 
and  sparrows. 

One  other  means  Joe  discovered  to  alleviate 
the  dullness  of  his  lot.  He  instituted  a  telephone 
service  with  the  next  cell.  By  the  removal  of  one 
brick,  easily  replaced,  prisoners  can  speak  to  each 
other  in  whispers.  What  they  find  to  talk  about 
can  be  imagined.  It  is  the  gossip  of  the  prison — 
the  cruelty  of  one  warder,  the  kindness  of  an- 
other, the  funk  of  a  third,  the  theft  of  this  con- 
vict, the  mutiny  of  that,  and  what  each  man  means 
to  do  when  he  gets  out. 

Joe  came  out  of  his  sentence  more  hardened 
than  ever,  but  more  or  less  out  of  love  with  the 
life  that  had  got  him  there.  He  found  someone 
waiting  to  meet  him.  It  was  the  converted 
Puncher. 

The  Puncher  had  set  himself  upon  the  con- 
version of  this  man,  the  chief  terror  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. When  drink  had  brought  him  down 
to  common  lodging-houses,  the  Puncher  had  made 
acquaintance  with  the  Criminal.  Both  men  were 
big  in  their  own  way.  The  Puncher  was  a  great 
fighter;  the  Criminal  was  a  great  burglar.  The 
Puncher  treated  the  Criminal  as  an  equal.  They 
drank  together,  plotted  certain  villainies  together, 
and  in  a  way  consorted.  But  there  was  always 
something  which  kept  them  separate.  Joe  re- 


138  THE  CRIMINAL 

spected  the  Puncher  as  a  fighting-man,  but  he 
thought  nothing  of  him  as  a  criminal.  Joe,  it 
must  be  remembered,  had  risen  so  high  in  his 
profession  of  burglar  as  to  work  with  men  like 
Milsom  and  Fowler,  who  thought  no  little  of  his 
cunning,  and  had  the  highest  respect  for  his 
courage.  A  sentence  of  twelve  months  merci- 
fully, for  Joe,  broke  up  this  partnership  just  be- 
fore the  famous  murder.  Another  of  the  men  he 
worked  with  was  high  in  his  profession — Dick 
Coombs,  now  serving  a  life  sentence  for  the 
murder  of  his  mistress.  And  another  was  a 
notorious  criminal  with  the  romantic  name  of 
Brighton  Slasher,  who  is  now  serving  his  third 
term  of  seven  years,  to  say  nothing  of  other  terms. 

Joe  was  a  first-class  burglar,  and  a  man  trusted 
and  respected  by  the  best  brains  in  his  profession. 
The  Puncher  did  not,  therefore,  stoop  when  he 
associated  with  Joe  in  common  lodging-houses, 
and  Joe  was  not  without  reason  when  he  held 
himself  at  a  certain  distance  from  this  prize- 
fighter, fallen  into  mere  drunkenness  and  stupid 
violence. 

It  was  of  Joe  the  Puncher  thought  most  long- 
ingly after  his  own  conversion.  He  knew  how 
the  wild  spirits  in  that  neighbourhood  respected 
Joe.  He  knew  that  Joe  was  looked  upon  as  the 
most  dangerous  man  in  the  place.  If  only  this 
king  of  the  local  terrors  could  be  caught,  could 
be  made  to  fling  off  evil,  and  stand  up  clean  and 


THE  CRIMINAL  139 

straight  for  right  living,  what  an  effect  it  would 
produce,  what  a  glory  for  religion ! 

So  the  Puncher  waited  for  Joe,  and  the  two 
men  talked  together — Joe  hearing  what  the 
Puncher  had  to  say,  and  leaving  him  with  the 
promise  to  think  it  over. 

What  the  Puncher  said  was  merely  to  point 
out  the  discomforts  of  evil  and  the  comforts  of 
goodness.  He  asked  Joe  to  compare  prison  life 
with  freedom,  the  lodging-house  with  home,  crime 
with  human  affection.  He  could  say,  "  Look  at 
me  now,  and  remember  what  I  was  once." 

Joe  could  certainly  see  a  great  difference. 

But  Joe  was  in  the  net  of  crime.  His  com- 
panions came  about  him.  It  was  quite  impossible 
to  escape  from  them.  Soon  he  was  living  in  the 
lodging-houses  of  this  dreadful  quarter  of  the 
town. 

One  pays  fivepence  a  night  in  the  houses  fre- 
quented by  Joe.  You  get  for  this  money  a  single 
bed  in  a  room  containing  six;  lights  are  turned 
out  at  half -past  twelve;  and  you  must  leave  your 
bed  before  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  If  you 
have  the  "  clods  "  for  the  next  night's  doss,  you 
can  stay  in  the  kitchen  all  day.  These  kitchens 
can  be  seen  through  the  street  railings;  the  doors 
are  kicked  to  pieces,  the  windows  have  gone,  the 
interior  is  lighted  chiefly  by  the  fire.  Here  hangs 
a  general  frying-pan  beside  the  fireplace,  always 
dirty.  You  take  your  food,  cook  it,  hang  the 


140  THE  CRIMINAL 

frying-pan  up,  still  dirty,  and  then  eat  either  on  a 
backless  bench  or  at  a  filthy  table,  often  sur- 
rounded by  the  lowest  creatures  in  London.  This 
is  the  general  kitchen,  and  it  is  here  that  the 
police  come  when  they  want  a  particular  criminal. 

Joe  discovered  that  this  environment  was  too 
strong  for  him.  He  remembered  what  the 
Puncher  had  said  to  him;  he  saw  the  common 
sense  of  it,  but  it  was  not,  he  felt,  possible  for 
him.  He  could  not  get  away  from  his  mates. 

The  Puncher  stuck  to  him.  One  evening  he 
took  Joe  back  with  him  to  his  home. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  night,"  says  Joe,  with 
profound  feeling. 

There  was  no  vision,  no  conversion.  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  that  Puncher  had  got  him  to  pray, 
and  that  the  vision  had  come.  No.  What  the 
poor  hunted,  harried,  and  desperate  criminal  will 
never  forget  is  the  brightness  and  happiness  of 
the  Puncher's  home. 

"  And  he  took  me  there ! "  says  Joe,  opening 
his  eyes;  "  me,  fresh  from  prison,  and  bad  if  ever 
a  man  was  bad.  I  shall  never  forget  that  even- 
ing." 

But  before  the  Puncher  could  proceed  with  his 
humanizing,  Joe  was  back  in  prison. 

This  time  he  prayed  to  God  nearly  every  night 
of  his  sentence,  and  this  time  it  was  not  for  death. 

A  new  idea  had  come  to  the  criminal.  He  was 
persuaded  that  if  he  could  get  a  good  woman  to 


THE  CRIMINAL  141 

marry  him  he  would  be  able  to  live  a  straight  life. 
With  this  fixed  idea  in  his  head,  this  desperate 
terror  of  the  police  knelt  down  in  his  prison  cell 
night  after  night,  and  prayed  that  God  would  give 
him  a  wife.  Among  all  the  strange  behests  that 
go  into  the  infinite  from  the  souls  of  kneeling 
mortals,  this  human  cry  of  the  burglar  in  prison 
must  seem  to  some  the  very  strangest — for  he 
was  praying  for  his  idea  of  a  Saviour,  the  only 
Saviour  who  could  help  him,  a  good  woman — 
"  that  not  impossible  She." 

When  he  came  from  his  praying  and  his  prison 
labour,  he  found  the  faithful  Puncher  wating  for 
him.  This  time  the  Puncher  begged  him  to  come 
straight  to  the  Salvation  Army  hall,  but  the  Crim- 
inal said  no  to  that,  and  went  on  his  way.  If 
there  was  a  God,  He  would  answer  that  prayer 
of  the  prison  cell,  and  send  a  woman  to  save  him. 

A  night  or  two  after  there  was  a  dispute  in  a 
public-house.  The  two  disputants  adjourned  to 
fight  it  out.  One  of  them  was  Joe.  He  nearly 
killed  his  man,  but  he  himself  suffered  frightfully 
— his  head  was  half  split,  his  cheeks  were  cut,  and 
his  face  was  so  smashed  about  that  he  was 
scarcely  recognizable.  He  went  from  the  fight 
to  a  chemist's  shop  and  had  his  head  bandaged, 
his  wounds  dressed.  While  this  was  being  done, 
he  felt  the  hopelessness  of  his  case — his  own  utter 
hopelessness,  and  the  strength  of  the  net  of  crime 
which  held  him  like  a  bird.  He  went  straight 


142  THE  CRIMINAL 

from  the  bandaging  to  the  hall  of  the  Salvation 
Army. 

At  first  no  one  recognized  him.  He  sat  there, 
with  his  bruised  and  blackened  eyes,  his  swollen 
lips,  and  his  bandaged  head,  listening  to  what 
they  had  to  say.  Then  one  of  the  Salvationists 
came  to  him,  recognized  him,  and  said : 

"  Aren't  you  tired  of  your  life?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  begin  again  ?  " 

"  I  would." 

Then  followed  the  usual  invitation,  and  Joe  got 
up  and  marched  to  the  penitent  form.  He  knelt 
down,  and  some  of  them  knelt  beside  him.  They 
counselled  him.  They  prayed  for  his  soul.  He 
got  up  saying  that  he  was  saved. 

What  happened  nobody  knows.  Joe  himself  is 
unable  to  explain.  He  knelt  there  and  prayed; 
he  rose  feeling  that  he  had  sufficient  strength  to 
make  a  fight  for  a  clean  life.  He  says  he  felt 
himself  quite  free  of  the  net  of  crime. 

Subconscious  mentation  ?  The  working  of  the 
mind,  fed  by  a  suggestion  from  the  Puncher? 
Yes,  this  is  quite  a  likely  theory;  but  why  the 
man  should  go  to  his  prayers  straight  from  a 
fight,  why  his  head  singing  with  blows  should  hold 
the  idea  of  prayer,  and  should  be  capable  of  re- 
ceiving peace — this  is  difficult  to  explain.  More 
difficult,  too,  the  explanation  of  his  complete  con- 
version, the  instant  and  complete  conversion  of  a 


THE  CRIMINAL  143 

criminal  called  habitual — so  that  he  rose  up  with 
no  desire  to  steal,  and,  as  the  sequel  has  proved, 
with  strength  to  withstand  the  temptation  of  his 
former  associates,  with  courage  to  march  in  the 
very  streets  frequented  by  those  men  under  the 
banner  of  a  ridiculed  salvation. 

Even  the  Puncher  could  not  believe  that  the 
Criminal  was  completely  saved.  He  said  to  the 
adjutant,  with  anxiety,  "  I'm  not  happy  about 
Joe;  I  can't  help  thinking  he  ought  to  have  an- 
other dip."  To  begin  with,  Joe  had  never  done 
a  day's  work  in  his  life.  It  was  difficult  to  see 
how  he  would  accustom  himself  to  daily  toil  for 
a  small  wage;  and  he  showed  no  particular  en- 
thusiasm in  his  conversion. 

But  Joe  was  waiting  for  his  prayer  to  be  an- 
swered. 

They  got  him  employment  in  a  laundry.  He 
received  no  wages  at  first,  only  his  food,  but  he 
worked  well  and  never  once  gave  occasion  for 
anxiety.  The  whole  neighbourhood  marvelled  to 
see  this  cracksman,  this  friend  of  Milsom  and 
Fowler,  at  humble  work. 

One  day  he  was  painting  a  cart,  and  looking  up 
from  his  job  saw  a  girl  looking  at  him.  He  felt 
that  his  prayer  was  answered.  He  felt  convinced 
that  this  was  the  wife  for  whom  he  had  prayed. 

He  managed  to  strike  up  an  acquaintance, 
albeit  diffident  of  himself  and  terribly  conscious 
of  his  bad  record. 


144  THE  CRIMINAL 

One  day,  when  they  were  friends,  and  had  dis- 
cussed many  things,  including  their  ideas  of  a 
happy  home,  Joe  said  to  her,  "  Do  you  think  you 
could  marry  a  man  like  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.     "  Why?  " 

"  Because  when  I  was  in  prison,"  he  said,  "  I 
asked  God  to  give  me  a  wife,  and  I  can't  help 
thinking  you  are  the  one." 

But  before  she  could  reply,  all  that  he  had  been 
crowded  on  his  mind,  and  he  compared  himself 
with  this  good,  pure,  sensible  girl,  and  felt  un- 
worthy. He  told  her  all  this,  and  said  that  while 
he  could  not  help  asking  her  to  be  his  wife,  he  did 
not  expect  that  she  would  marry  him.  He  frankly 
and  finely  said  that  he  might  drift  back  and  be 
what  he  was. 

The  girl  said,  "  I  know  the  risk.  But  I  tell  you 
what.  I'll  marry  you,  providing  you  join  the 
Army  and  become  a  regular  soldier." 

Was  that  the  moment  of  Joe's  conversion? 

It  was  at  that  moment  he  felt  suddenly  and 
supremely  exalted;  his  poor  troubled  soul  was 
flooded  with  light,  like  an  answer  to  prayer,  and 
he  felt  assured  that  he  was  under  the  mercy  and 
protection  of  a  God  Who  cared.  "  How  happy 
I  was ! — and  how  happy  I  am !  "  he  exclaimed. 

It  is  interesting  or  surprising,  as  you  like  it,  to 
see  the  part  played  by  the  Salvation  Army  in 
this  man's  love  story.  The  girl  wanted  a  security. 
In  all  London  she  knew  no  other  than  the  Salva- 


THE  CRIMINAL  145 

tion  Army.  If  he  became  a  soldier,  she  would 
become  his  wife.  The  very  poor,  swept  by  an 
ocean  of  irresistible  oppugnance,  have  a  refuge. 
It  is  the  Salvation  Army. 

This  man — one  of  our  habitual  criminals — is 
now  as  much  respected  in  the  neighbourhood 
where  he  was  once  the  chief  terror,  as  any  man 
living  a  good,  honest,  and  unselfish  life.  His 
devotion  to  his  wife  is  an  adoration.  And  people 
laugh  when  they  tell  you  about  Joe's  tenderness 
to  children,  and  how  he  loves  to  nurse  a  baby. 

It  seems  to  me  that  at  the  back  of  this  con- 
version is  the  force  we  call,  rather  slightingly, 
respectability.  The  man  wanted  to  be  respect- 
able, wanted  a  home,  wanted  to  be  free  of  prisons 
and  police,  wanted  to  have  a  Sunday  dinner  and 
a  clean  conscience.  Well,  but  what  is  all  this 
except  a  desire  to  be  better  than  he  was,  to  be 
consciously  right,  superior,  and  happy,  to  reach 
the  height  of  his  character? 

After  all,  respectability  is  only  another  name 
for  desire  for  betterment.  And  it  must  be  seen 
that  his  conversion  did  not  stop  at  respectability. 
He  is  supremely  happy  after  three  years  of  mar- 
ried life;  he  works  for  his  living;  it  is  a  job  to 
make  both  ends  meet;  there  is  sometimes  an 
anxiety  about  the  future;  but  in  the  midst  of  this 
happiness,  respectability,  and  harassing  anxiety, 
the  soul  of  the  Criminal  is  directed,  like  that  of 
the  Puncher,  to  saving  other  souls.  He  is  one 


146  THE  CRIMINAL 

of  the  Salvationists  in  that  bad  neighbourhood 
who  works  with  all  his  main  to  convert  the 
wicked,  the  evil,  and  the  profitless,  and  quite 
simply,  quite  genuinely,  without  fee  or  reward, 
and  with  a  fine  manful  earnestness  he  talks 
bravely  to  the  worst:  of  his  former  companions 
about  the  love  of  God. 

If  respectability  is  the  cause,  the  fruits  of  re- 
spectability in  the  character  of  this  criminal  are 
the  fruits  of  religion. 


VI 
A  COPPER  BASHER 

WHEN  he  was  fourteen  years  of  age  he  de- 
liberately left  .   comfortable  home  and 
gave  himself  to  the  London   streets. 
From  earliest  childhood  he  had  manifested  what 
is  said  to  be  the  unmistakable  trait  of  a  criminal 
— resistance  to  educative  influence.     Now,  in  the 
full  lustihood  of  boyhood,  he  went  to  the  streets. 
He   went   deliberately.      He   liked    them.      He 
wanted  them.,   There  appeared  to  be  no  power 
which  could  train  him  for  social  life. 

It  is  interesting  that  this  thoroughly  bad  and 
criminal  man  has  never  been  the  slave  of  sensual 
appetites.  He  has  never  smoked,  he  never  had 
the  smallest  desire  for  tobacco,  has  never  even 
been  anxious  enough  to  make  experiment  of  this 
habit.  Again,  he  has  never  been  a  drinker.  Pub- 
lic-houses have  been  useful  to  him  in  the  way 
of  business;  he  has  made  them  rendezvous  for 
the  concocting  of  crimes;  but  he  has  never  had 
the  least  craving  for  alcohol.  As  regards  other 
sensual  temptations,  he  appears  always  to  have 
been  equally  immune. 

One  powerful  passion  possessed  his  being  from 
childhood,  and  left  no  room  for  anything  else; 
147 


148  A  COPPER  BASHER 

this  was  the  passion  for  crime.  And,  not  crime 
on  the  grand  scale,  not  valorous  burglary  nor 
carefully  projected  forgery  or  murder,  but  mean, 
savage,  beastly,  cowardly,  and  odious  crime.  The 
reader  is  now  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  hu- 
man monster  who  occupied  a  middle  place  be- 
tween the  felon  and  the  hooligan;  a  man  despised 
by  the  great  criminal  and  feared  by  the  rough — 
a  ruffian  and  a  cur. 

He  sits  before  me,  talking  of  his  past  crimes 
in  a  way  that  makes  me  shudder.  I  do  not  know 
any  man  who  has  at  times  so  rilled  me  with  loath- 
ing and  aversion.  He  is  short  of  stature,  with 
great  breadth  of  high  shoulders,  the  brief  neck 
fat  and  spongy.  His  hair  is  black  and  grows 
in  a  silly  fringe  over  his  forehead ;  his  heavy  face 
is  the  colour  of  dough ;  there  is  deadness  to  human 
feeling  in  the  blue  eyes ;  the  cruel  mouth,  which  is 
never  closed,  shows  teeth  which  never  meet,  and 
has  a  tired  expression,  a  little  contemptuous  and  in- 
different. He  speaks  in  the  manner  of  one  whose 
tongue  is  too  big  for  the  mouth,  thickly,  slowly, 
drawlingly.  Sometimes  he  laughs,  and  the  sound 
is  thin,  heartless,  metallic.  The  impression  he 
makes  upon  me  is  one  of  horror. 

And  yet  the  mind  of  the  man  compels  interest. 
One  feels  that  here  is  an  aspect  of  the  human 
soul  full  of  extraordinary  suggestion.  He  gives 
one  fresh  ideas  concerning  evil.  He  makes  in- 
iquity take  new  shapes  before  the  mind.  One 


A  COPPER  BASHER  149 

contemplates  him  with  curiosity  and  baffled  won- 
derment. 

His  family  is  of  Irish  origin.  The  father  and 
mother  were  respectable  people  occupying  a  more 
or  less  decent  house,  and  following  as  well  as 
they  could  the  religion  of  their  forefathers,  a 
Roman  Catholic  priest  occasionally  visiting  them 
in  their  home  and  encouraging  them  in  ordinary 
respectability.  The  brothers  and  sisters  re- 
sponded to  this  training.  They  went  obediently 
to  school,  they  attended  church,  they  said  their 
prayers,  they  grew  up  with  the  idea  of  getting 
the  best  employment  they  could,  and  submitted, 
without  question,  to  the  routine  of  civilization, 
and  the  necessities  of  their  situation  in  the  social 
world. 

Danny  was  the  black  sheep  of  this  humble 
family.  He  was  like  a  stone  to  his  schoolmasters, 
imbibing  nothing,  and  indifferent  to  chastisement. 
He  played  truant  from  church.  He  refused  to 
say  his  prayers.  He  regarded  the  whole  life  of 
the  home  with  contemptuous  disfavour.  Never 
once,  he  says,  was  he  conscious  of  any  desire  to 
learn,  to  be  good,  to  work  and  get  on  in  the  world. 
Always,  from  his  earliest  remembrance,  he  re- 
sented discipline  and  loathed  effort.  He  regarded 
both  with  impatient  contempt.  Why  should  one 
be  careful  of  behaviour?  Why  should  one  try 
to  get  on?  The  whole  of  his  being  supplied  no 
answer  to  these  questions. 


150  A  COPPER  BASHER 

At  the  age  of  fourteen  the  home-life  became  in- 
sufferable. Its  monotony  irked  him.  He  hated 
it  and  despised  it.  Although  in  that  home  he  was 
assured  of  a  comfortable  bed  and  a  sufficiency  of 
food,  he  preferred  the  hazard  of  the  streets.  He 
went  out  one  day  with  his  hands  in  his  empty 
pockets,  and  he  never  returned. 

He  became  a  slinking  animal  of  prey,  a  human 
stoat,  with  the  streets  of  London  for  his  hunting- 
ground.  His  great  physical  strength  made  him 
welcome  to  a  gang  of  youths  who  had  taken  to 
the  streets,  most  of  them  at  any  rate,  on  account  of 
brutality  and  starvation  at  home.  This  gang 
lived  by  crime,  and  were  seldom  so  hard  put  to  it 
as  to  sleep  in  the  open.  Their  headquarters  was 
a  common  lodging-house.  Danny,  who  knew 
them  all,  and  had  often  joined  them  in  their  devil- 
tries, announced  to  them  his  intention  of  living 
free.  They  welcomed  him  gladly.  He  became 
their  leader. 

When  this  gang  had  made  enough  money  by 
crime  for  food  and  lodging,  they  would  turn,  for 
diversion,  to  the  local  hooligans,  and  use  them 
brutally.  The  Londoner  who  wanders  into  the 
poor  quarters  may  often  have  noticed  a  gang  of 
vagabond  young  men  hurrying  through  the  streets 
as  though  with  some  definite  and  pressing  purpose 
in  view.  He  may,  perhaps,  have  thought  them 
to  be  hooligans.  In  reality  they  were  probably 
the  dreaded  enemies  of  hooligans,  young  criminals 


A  COPPER  BASHER  151 

whose  passion  for  savagery  drives  them  every 
now  and  then  to  fight  those  for  whom  the  police 
do  not  trouble  to  interfere.  Apparently,  a  young 
criminal  is  often  visited  with  this  overmastering 
impulse  to  fight,  and  as  soon  as  he  has  earned 
enough  money  for  his  needs  and  has  eaten  his 
fill,  an  hour's  idleness  at  a  street  corner  will  end 
in  one  of  these  sudden  sallyings  out  to  fight  the 
roughs. 

Danny  took  part  in  endless  battles  of  this  kind, 
many  and  many  a  time  half  murdering  his  ene- 
mies. It  was  his  sport — his  cricket  and  football 
and  physical  culture.  The  gang  to  which  he  be- 
longed was  powerful,  savage,  and  desperate.  No- 
body dared  to  interfere  with  it.  Let  Danny  and 
his  mates  swing  suddenly  round  a  street  corner, 
and  women  drew  back  from  the  gate  to  the  door- 
steps, children  were  called  from  the  gutters,  and 
the  hooligans  ran  for  their  lives.  During  the 
fight,  men  looked  on  from  the  doors  and  windows 
of  the  houses,  never  daring  to  interfere,  even  if 
their  own  sons  were  among  the  hooligans.  And 
this  was  merely  the  recreation  of  Danny  and  his 
gang  of  thieves. 

This  savagery  took  another  form  when  Danny 
advanced  in  strength  and  brutality.  It  was  a 
favourite  occupation  of  theirs  to  waylay  a  police- 
man at  night,  to  club  him  from  behind  with  a  piece 
of  iron,  and  while  he  lay  unconscious  and  silent 
on  the  ground  to  kick  him  from  head  to  heel. 


152  A  COPPER  BASHER 

Danny  became  what  is  called  a  "  Copper 
Basher." 

Perhaps  this  cowardly  scoundrelism  was  in- 
spired by  hatred  of  prison.  Very  soon  after 
Danny  had  taken  to  the  streets  he  was  arrested 
for  felony,  and  disappeared  from  society  for  three 
months.  His  crime,  of  which  he  will  not  speak, 
and  which  he  proudly  insists  was  a  "  felony,"  may 
possibly  have  been  the  theft  of  twopence  or  three- 
pence from  a  child  sent  to  fetch  a  loaf  of  bread 
from  the  baker's.  Whatever  it  was,  Danny  went 
to  prison  for  three  months,  and  those  three 
months  made  him  infinitely  more  cruel,  infinitely 
more  savage,  infinitely  more  dangerous  than  ever 
he  had  been  before.  Three  years  might  have 
broken  his  heart,  three  months  hardened  it. 

A  few  instances  of  the  way  in  which  he  earned 
his  living  will  suffice  to  give  the  reader  an  idea  of 
his  mind.  As  a  boy  he  learned  to  let  a  mate 
snatch  his  cap  from  his  head  and  fling  it  among 
the  boxes  displayed  outside  a  grocer's  or  a  fruit- 
erer's shop;  while  the  mate  ran  away  in  pretended 
fear  of  Danny,  Danny,  apologizing  to  the  shop- 
man, would  recover  his  cap  with  an  egg  or  an 
apple,  or  a  pound  of  sausages  inside  it,  and  rush 
off  to  punish  his  accomplice.  Later  on  he  became 
an  expert  shop-lifter.  For  months,  even  for 
years,  one  may  say  that  this  man  lived  by  stealing 
from  shops.  He  was  not  content  with  snatching 
goods,  but  coveted  the  money  in  the  till.  This 


A  COPPER  BASHER  153 

was  one  of  his  favourite  dodges :  He  and  a  mate, 
having  chosen  their  shop,  and  seen  that  it  was 
empty,  would  enter  swiftly  from  the  street;  while 
Danny  vaulted  the  counter  and  rilled  his  pockets 
from  the  till,  the  other  lay  full  length  in  front 
of  the  door  leading  to  the  parlour;  if  by  chance 
Danny  was  so  long  at  the  till  as  to  give  the 
shopman  time  to  rise  from  his  chair,  on  opening 
the  door  and  rushing  out  upon  the  thief,  the  un- 
fortunate tradesman  would  trip  over  the  accom- 
plice's body,  and  come  a  cropper. 

It  can  be  imagined  that  blackguards  of  this  type 
would  soon  discover  the  shops  kept  by  poor  old 
women  with  no  man  to  protect  them. 

Another  very  profitable  "  lay "  was  that  of 
stealing  from  drunken  men.  It  did  not  matter 
whether  the  drunkard  was  a  poor  man  or  a  rich 
man,  whether  he  was  discovered  by  day  or  by 
night;  Danny  always  went  for  him  and  left  him 
bare.  One  story,  illustrating  the  coldbloodedness 
of  these  young  criminals,  will  show  the  reader 
how  calmly  robberies  of  this  order  can  be  exe- 
cuted in  the  streets. 

One  night,  ranging  the  better  quarters  of  Lon- 
don in  search  of  prey,  Danny  and  a  mate  noticed 
a  well-dressed  man  sitting  on  the  doorstep  of  a 
house  in  one  of  the  best  London  squares.  They 
immediately  made  for  him,  and  found  him  sound 
asleep.  There  were  people  in  the  neighbourhood, 
but  not  near  them.  They  took  the  man's  money, 


154-  A  COPPER  BASHER 

his  pocketbook,  his  watch  and  chain,  his  studs 
and  links,  and  handkerchief.  During  these  opera- 
tions he  roused,  and  they  mothered  him  with 
great  tenderness,  professing  their  willingness  to 
see  him  safely  home.  Then,  when  the  robbery 
was  complete,  they  looked  about  them.  No  one 
was  to  be  seen.  The  man  was  quiescent,  dozing 
back  into  huddled  sleep.  Will  it  be  believed  that 
these  two  savages  turned  round,  set  about  the  man 
they  had  robbed,  and  half  murdered  him  with 
their  fists  and  boots — out  of  sheer  deviltry  ?  The 
man  was  an  Irishman,  and  a  wild  one;  he  made  an 
attempt  to  fight;  and  even  when  smashed  and 
kicked  and  broken  he  collapsed  on  the  ground,  he 
still  kept  up  a  gurgling  shout  for  help.  The  two 
blackguards  walked  quietly  away,  their  hands  in 
their  pockets.  At  the  corner  of  the  square 
they  encountered  a  policeman.  "  Gov'nor,"  said 
Danny,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  "  there's  a  wild 
Irishman  down  there,  mad  drunk;  it'll  take  two 
of  you  to  hold  him." 

Another  story  illustrates  the  depravity  of  this 
type  of  mind  in  another  aspect.  From  all  I  can 
gather  the  popular  notion  is  not  altogether  true 
that  there  is  honour  among  thieves.  Thieves 
prey  upon  each  other,  give  each  other  up  to  the 
police,  rob  and  steal  from  each  other.  Certainly 
the  type  of  thief  represented  by  Danny  never  ex- 
periences a  single  scruple.  That  is  what  makes 
this  man's  story  so  interesting.  He  was  of  brutes 


A  COPPER  BASHER  155 

the  most  brutal,  of  savages  the  most  savage,  of 
liars  and  traitors  the  most  lying  and  the  most 
treacherous;  and  throughout  it  all  he  never  once 
felt  that  he  was  doing  anything  base  or  mean — 
the  more  mean,  indeed,  the  more  it  tickled  his 
fancy.  He  did  the  most  scurvy  things  imaginable 
without  a  moment's  twinge  of  conscience,  and 
laughed  over  them  afterwards. 

What  does  the  reader  think  of  minds  capable 
of  such  a  scheme  as  this?  The  story  got  about 
that  a  bad  woman  had  "  pinched  "  a  purse  and 
was  treating  two  of  her  friends  in  a  public-house. 
Two  thieves  immediately  set  out  to  get  the  stolen 
purse.  When  they  reached  the  public-house,  one 
of  them  boldly  asked  for  a  share  of  the  plunder. 
It  was  refused.  He  then  told  the  other  two 
women  by  signs  that  it  meant  five  shillings  each 
if  they  cleared  out.  They  emptied  their  tumblers, 
and  departed — with  loving  farewells  to  the  be- 
mused friend  who  had  "  treated  "  them.  When 
they  were  outside,  the  thief  filled  himself  a  glass 
of  water,  grabbed  the  purse,  passed  it  to  his  mate, 
and  at  the  same  time  flung  the  water  full  in  the 
face  of  the  woman  as  she  rose  to  pursue.  The 
water  struck  her  in  the  mouth,  and  she  stumbled 
back  choking;  the  thief  filled  another  tumbler  and 
shot  the  water,  with  tremendous  force,  between 
her  gasping  lips,  sending  her  down.  While  she 
lay  on  the  floor,  he  poured  more  water  down  her 
mouth  and  over  her  face.  Then  he  calmly  called 


156  A  COPPER  BASHER 

the  landlord.  "  Here's  a  woman  in  a  fit,"  he 
said;  "  give  us  some  more  water."  The  landlord 
hastily  passed  a  heavy  carafe,  and  the  thief  poured 
it  over  the  woman  till  she  was  nearly  suffocated. 
"  She'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute  or  two,"  said 
the  thief,  and  got  up.  The  woman  staggered  to 
her  feet,  choking  and  purple,  and  made  her 
way  out  of  the  house  in  a  vain  quest  of  the 
thief. 

Danny  laughs  over  that  story  to  this  day,  and  I 
do  not  think  that  even  now,  while  he  hates  the 
act  and  could  not  do  it  again,  he  realizes  the  full 
measure  of  its  cruelty  and  abomination. 

But  while  he  was  following  a  life  of  crime,  liv- 
ing with  criminals  in  common  lodging-houses,  and 
never  doing  an  hour's  honest  work,  there  came 
constant  and  increasingly  long  interruptions  from 
the  police.  Again  and  again  Danny  was  ar- 
rested, again  and  again  the  police  got  even  with 
him  in  the  cell  at  the  station,  and  again  and  again 
he  "  went  up  the  street."  If  he  laughs  at  the 
memory  of  his  crimes,  he  laughs  good-naturedly 
at  the  punchings  and  kickings  which  the  police 
gave  him  in  the  cell.  He  says  he  never  got  so 
knocked  about  in  his  life.  "  They'd  punch  me 
in  the  nose,"  he  says,  smiling;  "  and  when  I 
went  down  wallop,  one  of  them  would  hold  me 
up  for  his  pal  to  have  a  smack  at  my  mouth. 
And  then  they'd  all  set  about  me  with  their  boots. 
Cruel ! "  he  says,  tossing  his  head  and  laughing 


A  COPPER  BASHER  157 

good-temperedly.  He  calls  these  private  punish- 
ments of  the  police  "  having  it  done  upon  me." 

Of  course,  Danny  was  well  known  as  a  cow- 
ardly assaulter  of  police.  One  understands  that 
retribution  in  the  cell  of  the  station.  But  it  was 
not  the  way  to  make  this  savage  enemy  of 
society  a  useful  and  a  virtuous  citizen.  Every 
time  Danny  "  came  down  the  street "  he  was 
worse. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  prison  does  for  a  man." 
Danny  leans  forward,  rests  both  forearms  on  the 
table,  and  regards  me  fixedly,  with  bitterness  evi- 
dent in  his  loose  mouth.  "  It  hardens  him.  Ask 
any  man  who  has  done  time.  I  don't  care  who  it 
is,  nor  what  his  offence  was,  nor  whether  he  was 
hard  or  green  when  he  went  in.  It's  bound  to. 
It  can't  do  no  otherwise.  It  hardens  a  man." 
He  sits  back,  and  continues  in  his  drawling  voice. 
"  Another  thing  it  does  is  to  learn  a  man  more 
tricks  than  what  he  knew  before  he  went  in. 
Prisons  see  more  thieving  in  one  day  than  the 
rest  of  the  world  sees  in  a  fortni't.  It  stands  to 
reason.  Lock  up  a  lot  of  men,  treat  them  like 
animals,  half  starve  them,  and  never  make  any 
attempt  to  teach  them,  and  what's  the  result? 
They  do  you  all  round.  You'd  never  believe  how 
much  plug  tobacco  gets  into  prison.  There's 
precious  few  warders  who  don't  do  a  bit  of  private 
trading  on  their  own  account.  And  the  cook- 
shop  tempts  starving  men,  and  sharpens  their 


158  A  COPPER  BASHER 

wits.  Well,  I  learnt  more  clever  dodges  in  prison 
than  ever  I  learned  outside,  I  know  that." 

Certainly  the  moral  instructions  had  no  effect 
upon  his  conscience.  Like  others  I  have  ques- 
tioned, this  man  tells  me  that  never  once  in  all 
the  long  record  of  his  prison  experience  did  a 
chaplain  enter  his  cell  or  speak  to  him  in  private. 
Never  once  did  a  single  person,  governor  or 
chaplain,  make  any  effort  to  awaken  and  stimulate 
the  sleeping  conscience  of  this  criminal.  As  a 
representative  of  society  the  governor  received 
him,  and  locked  him  up;  as  a  representative  of 
religion  the  chaplain  read  prayers  and  preached 
a  sermon  to  him  on  Sunday.  The  taxpayer  in  his 
home,  confidently  hoping  that  the  poor  wretches 
in  prison  are  being  reformed  and  regenerated, 
likes  to  think  that  posterity  will  escape  the  heavy 
charge  of  punishing  the  lawbreakers.  And  in  his 
cell  Danny  plots  more  villainies  and  rehearses 
new  crimes  against  the  hour  when  he  will  go 
"  down  the  street." 

Once  only  did  Danny  ever  have  private  words 
with  a  prison  chaplain.  After  serving  a  term  he 
went  before  the  chaplain,  who  had  expressed  no 
wish  to  see  him,  and  asked  for  the  suit  of  clothes 
provided  by  the  Prisoners!  Aid  Society.  The 
chaplain  looked  at  him,  shook  his  head,  and  re- 
plied, "  Not  for  you.  You'll  be  back  again  in  a 
week  or  two."  Like  the  Criminal  whose  story 
we  have  told,  Danny's  blood  fired  up.  But  he 


A  COPPER  BASHER  159 

checked.  "  That's  giving  a  bloke  a  good  heart 
to  go  down  the  road  with ! "  he  exclaimed,  and 
laughed.  If  the  representative  of  religion  could 
have  realized  it,  that  laugh  was  his  indictment. 

Consider,  in  passing,  how  the  story  of  this 
chaplain  illustrates  the  truth  of  Professor  James's 
remarks  about  second-hand  religion.  Directly 
you  put  a  man  within  a  gaol,  as  the  official  repre- 
sentative of  religion,  as  the  official  deputy  obey- 
ing the  divine  injunction  to  visit  those  in  prison, 
be  sure  that  Christianity  becomes  there  as  much 
a  matter  of  routine  as  the  rest  of  the  penal  dis- 
cipline. One  has  sympathy  with  the  chaplain; 
to  visit  hardened,  ignorant,  and  perhaps  abusive 
criminals  all  the  day  long  is  a  dreary  work;  but 
one  has  no  sympathy  with  those  of  them  at  any 
rate  who,  being  paid  to  do  this  saving  work,  stay 
at  home  saying  that  it  is  useless.  I  do  not  think 
that  any  reasonable  man  believes  an  official  rep- 
resentative of  religion  capable  of  accomplishing 
the  regeneration  of  criminals;  while  a  great  num- 
ber will  perhaps  hold  the  view  that  missions 
to  prisoners,  conducted  by  missionaries  who  have 
themselves  suffered  and  repented,  might  make  re- 
ligion even  in  a  prison  the  true  and  vital  thing 
which  saves  the  soul. 

Danny,  as  I  have  said,  represents  the  lowest 
type  of  criminal.  When  one  reflects  upon  the 
utter  baseness  of  his  mind  it  seems  impossible 
that  he  should  ever  have  turned  from  his  wicked- 


160  A  COPPER  BASHER 

ness  and  lived.  Before  telling  how  that  happened, 
I  must  narrate  an  incident  of  his  prison  career 
which  will  show  how  very  base  and  vile  was  his 
character. 

Have  you  ever  thought  that  a  prison  warder 
may  suffer  from  nerves  ?  I  remember  some  years 
ago  going  over  the  prison  at  Wormwood  Scrubbs 
and  seeing  a  single  warder,  unarmed,  in  charge 
of  a  number  of  men  in  the  carpenter's  shop  all 
handling  more  or  less  formidable  tools;  it  struck 
me,  then,  that  a  good  story  might  be  written  of 
a  convict  whose  eyes  succeeded  in  breaking  down 
a  warder's  nerves,  so  that  he  dared  not  to  be 
alone.  Danny  told  me  of  an  incident  that  shows 
my  imagination  had  reason. 

"  There  was  a  warder,"  he  said,  "  who  got  the 
jumps  and  tried  to  cure  them  by  being  extra 
strict.  He  was  particularly  funky  of  one  man. 
Somehow  or  other,  I  was  always  a  favourite  with 
the  warders,  got  soft  jobs,  and  was  treated  lenient. 
Well,  this  bloke  came  to  me  one  day  and  said, 
'  Look  here,  if  you'll  say  that  so-and-so,'  naming 
the  man  he  was  afraid  of,  '  set  about  me,  it'll  be 
worth  something  good  to  you/  I  said  I  wouldn't 
say  nothing  of  the  kind;  but  sure  enough  the 
prisoner  was  put  away.  When  I  was  taken  be- 
fore the  governor,  and  he  said  that  I  had  behaved 
well  in  rescuing  the  warder  from  the  prisoner, 
that  the  poor  man  might  probably  have  been  mur- 
dered but  for  me,  and  that  in  consideration  of  this 


A  COPPER  BASHER  161 

act  he  would  see  that  my  sentence  was  shortened, 
I  was  so  taken  aback  that  I  couldn't  speak." 

One  feels  that  Danny  might  have  spoken  if  he 
had  chosen;  one  does  not  believe  that  he  ever  lost 
power  of  speech  or  was  ever  astonished  by  any- 
thing. No;  he  was  the  type  of  man  who  would 
"  give  anyone  away."  But  Danny  is  ashamed  of 
certain  things  in  his  past;  the  farther  he  gets 
away  from  that  past  and  the  more  settled  he  be- 
comes in  happiness  and  peace  of  soul,  the  more  is 
he  inclined  to  blurr  the  blackest  things  in  his 
memory.  He  tells  you  his  first  crime  was  a 
"felony";  he  prefers  that  you  should  form  the 
impression  of  a  terrible  burglary,  not  pence- 
snatching  from  a  poor  child.  He  says  he  was 
taken  aback  so  that  he  could  not  speak;  he  does 
not  want  you  to  think  that  he  gave  a  man  away. 
If  he  lies  in  this  way,  one  can  forgive  him. 

I  am  convinced,  from  what  I  have  heard,  that 
this  man  had  in  his  soul  all  that  is  most  dastardly, 
base,  scurvy,  and  vile;  I  do  not  think  there  was 
any  imaginable  mean  thing  that  he  would  not 
have  done.  And  the  more  one  realizes  this  utter 
and  horrible  baseness,  the  more  wonderful  ap- 
pears the  revolution  of  his  character. 

It  came  about  that  Danny  was  arrested  and 
sentenced  to  a  long  term  of  imprisonment  soon 
after  the  conversion  of  the  Puncher.  Of  course, 
he  had  heard  of  that  miraculous  event,  and,  of 
course,  he  had  laughed  over  it  with  some  of  the 


162  A  COPPER  BASHER 

Puncher's  old  mates  in  the  lodging-houses.  But 
in  prison,  realizing  the  weary  time  of  monotonous 
suffering  ahead  of  him,  the  conversion  of  the 
Puncher  stuck  in  his  mind  and  haunted  his 
thoughts.  He  knew  that  the  Puncher  was  better 
off  as  a  saved  man  than  as  a  drunkard.  He 
imagined  the  Puncher's  home,  his  fare,  his  good 
meals,  nice  clothes,  his  liberty  unshadowed  by 
fear  of  police.  Then  he  considered  within  him- 
self how  bad  and  low  the  Puncher  had  been,  a 
"  hopeless  "  drunkard.  It  seemed  to  him  a  won- 
derful thing  that  a  man  so  abandoned  to  drink, 
and  such  a  man,  should  all  of  a  sudden  give  it  up. 
He  was  quite  dazed  and  staggered  by  the  thought. 
What  a  drunkard,  what  a  frightful  drunkard,  the 
Puncher  had  been;  and  now  he  was  clean  and 
respectable ! 

For  days  the  prisoner  fed  his  mind  upon  this 
thought  in  the  solitude  of  his  cell.  Alone  in  that 
little  cramped  space  of  stone,  locked  in,  and  with- 
out sight  of  tree,  sky,  or  moving  creature,  the 
hardened  criminal  reflected  upon  the  "  fair  mar- 
vel "  of  Puncher's  conversion. 

And  one  day  revelation  came  to  this  base  and 
savage  mind.  It  came  suddenly,  without  miracle, 
and  it  did  not  in  the  least  stagger  him.  He 
started  up  with  the  thought  in  his  mind,  "  If  God 
can  save  Puncher,  He  can  save  me !  " 

The  revelation  was  too  clear  and  staring  to 
stagger  him.  This  thing  which  had  never  before 


A  COPPER  BASHER  163 

occurred  to  him,  was  obvious,  plain  as  a  pike- 
staff. And  yet  it  was  wonderful.  "  If  God  can 
save  Puncher,  that  awful  and  degraded  sinner, 
He  can  save  me — I  who  love  myself  and  know, 
therefore,  that  I  am  not  so  bad  as  other  people." 
Why  on  earth  had  he  not  thought  of  this  before  ? 

In  Victor  Hugo's  Quatre-Vingt-Treize  there  is 
this  question  and  answer:  Boisberthelot  said  to 
La  Vieuville,  "  Do  you  believe  in  God,  cheva- 
lier?"  La  Vieuville  replied,  "  Yes.  No.  Some- 
times." 

Sometimes  all  men  believe.  Danny's  "  some- 
times "  had  now  arrived.  Hitherto  God  had 
never  occupied  his  mind.  He  had  thought  noth- 
ing about  religion,  one  way  or  the  other.  "  God  " 
was  a  term  convenient  to  round  off  an  oath  with. 
"  Hell  "  meant  something  bad.  As  for  "  heaven," 
it  was  too  soft  even  for  an  oath;  he  had  never 
been  interested  in  that  place;  it  seemed  to  him 
something  unmanly  and  young-ladylike;  he  cer- 
tainly had  no  objection  to  going  there  after  death, 
if  hell  was  the  only  alternative;  but  he  reckoned 
it  as  bad  as  a  Sunday-school. 

All  these  years  Danny  had  lived  in  modern 
London,  which  spends  millions  of  pounds  a  year 
on  religion  and  morality,  and  his  ideas  of  God 
were  what  we  have  said.  Surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  churches,  charitable  agencies,  rescue  societies, 
and  educational  machinery;  brought  by  prison  dis- 
cipline to  a  willy-nilly  consideration  of  formal 


164  A  COPPER  BASHER 

religion  on  many  a  crawling  sabbath  day,  this 
man  had  yet  never  formulated  to  himself  any 
ideas  of  God,  existence,  immortality.  His  phrase 
concerning  religion  has  a  penetrating  significance : 
"  I  never  gave  it  a  thought."  He  had  thoughts, 
plenty  of  them,  for  crime,  scoundrelism,  and  low- 
est rascality;  but  not  one,  not  one,  for  life,  its 
meaning,  its  responsibility,  its  great  issue. 

And  now  the  first  idea  of  God  which  occurred 
to  his  mind  was  that  of  a  Rescuer,  some  inde- 
finable Power  capable  of  turning  his  unhappiness 
into  happiness.  Without  any  question  as  to  the 
ability  of  this  Something  to  help  and  save,  Danny 
surrendered  himself.  But  in  a  manner  character- 
istic of  the  man.  If  the  phrase  may  pass,  this 
wretched  prisoner  put  God  on  His  mettle.  And 
there  was  an  element  of  self -righteousness  in  his 
idea.  "If  God  can  save  Puncher,  He  can  save 
me." 

To  reach  God,  he  understood,  prayer  was  neces- 
sary. So  he  got  upon  his  knees  in  the  prison  cell, 
and  offered  his  first  prayer.  He  was  a  young 
man,  and  twelve  whole  years  out  of  his  short  life 
had  been  passed  in  gaols;  he  had  never  had  an 
opportunity  of  understanding  religion;  he  had 
never  given  the  idea  of  God  a  moment's  thought. 
But  he  knew  just  enough  of  the  matter  to  kneel. 
In  what  spirit  he  knelt  one  cannot  exactly  say; 
the  important  fact  is  that  this  depraved  brute 
did  kneel,  and  did  pray. 


A  COPPER  BASHER  165 

He  says  that  he  prayed  throughout  his  long 
sentence,  and  hoped  that  when  he  left  prison  for- 
tune would  smile  upon  him,  that  it  would  be 
"  all  right." 

He  came  out  and  was  met  by  the  Puncher. 
An  answer  to  prayer. 

The  Puncher  talked  to  him  in  his  quiet,  sensible 
fashion.  What  a  rotten  life  he  was  living!  Life 
passing,  middle  age  approaching,  and  twelve  years 
of  prison!  Was  the  game  worth  the  candle? 
Was  he  happy? 

Now  this  reasoning  is  powerful  enough,  be- 
cause so  obvious  and  sensible,  in  the  case  of  a 
drunkard;  but  Danny  was  a  man  without  carnal 
appetites;  he  was  a  brain  concentrated  on  crime. 
Could  it  convert  the  thought  of  this  man,  could 
it  change  the  grey  matter  of  his  brain,  habituated 
from  infancy  to  cunning  and  rascality?  Its  one 
effect  was  to  draw  from  Danny  the  admission 
that  certainly  he  did  not  want  to  be  "  copped  " 
again. 

Then  the  Puncher  moved  from  morality  to  re- 
ligion. He  spoke  of  spiritual  peace,  the  pleasant 
feeling  of  a  life  lived  rightly,  the  power  of  God 
to  wipe  away  sins  and  give  a  soul  a  new 
birth.  He  told  Danny  that  there  was  no  other 
way. 

Danny  was  impressed.  He  said  he  wanted  to 
be  saved.  He  said  he  wouldn't  mind  giving  re- 
ligion a  chance.  But,  what  about  work?  He 


166  A  COPPER  BASHER 

would  have  to  work;  that  wasn't  nice  to  begin 
with;  and,  where  was  he  to  find  it? 

Puncher  said,  "  Leave  that  to  God." 

The  answer  was  a  fine  one;  it  manifested  a  pro- 
fundity of  spiritual  experience.  For  the  Puncher 
knew  that  while  in  his  present  state  Danny  was 
incapable  of  prolonged  and  monotonous  work,  and 
was  inclined  to  give  himself  to  religion  only  to 
escape  prison  and  get  a  "  soft  job  ";  nevertheless, 
let  him  be  converted  and  his  whole  attitude  to 
work  and  to  religion  would  suffer  a  revolutionary 
change.  Let  him  be  converted,  and  he  would  wel- 
come any  work,  the  most  arduous  and  dreary,  so 
long  as  it  was  honest;  let  him  be  converted,  and 
he  would  rather  starve  than  live  by  the  religion 
which  had  given  him  such  pure  joy. 

Such  was  the  Puncher's  faith  in  conver- 
sion; such  to  him  was  the  reality  of  the  new 
birth. 

And  this  is  really  what  happened  to  Danny. 

Danny  came  to  the  Salvation  Army  meeting; 
he  felt  a  light  of  illumination  break  through  his 
soul  at  the  adjutant's  assurance  of  God's  love  for 
the  worst  of  men;  he  realized  all  of  a  sudden  the 
need  for  love  in  his  own  barren  heart,  and  in 
that  spirit — the  spirit  of  a  broken  and  contrite 
heart — he  knelt  at  the  penitent  form,  and  for  the 
first  time  really  reached  into  the  infinite.  He 
prayed  for  mercy ;  he  prayed  for  strength. 

He  rose  from  his  knees  a  changed  man. 


A  COPPER  BASHER  167 

This  change  was  absolute  and  entire.  From 
being  cruel,  he  became  as  tender  as  a  woman. 
From  being  a  cunning  thief,  he  became  scrupu- 
lously honest.  From  being  a  loafer  and  unem- 
ployable, who  had  never  done  a  single  day's  work 
in  his  civil  life,  he  became  an  industrious  work- 
man. From  being  basely  selfish,  he  became  con- 
siderate for  others,  giving  both  himself  and  pres- 
ently his  money  to  the  service  of  religion.  "  The 
greatest  change  in  Danny,"  said  a  friend  who 
knows  him  well,  "  is  his  gentleness.  He  couldn't 
hurt  a  fly  now,  and  any  tale  of  cruelty  or  suffer- 
ing, especially  where  children  are  concerned, 
fairly  breaks  him  down."  What  a  revolution 
in  personality!  What  a  new  birth! 

Danny  has  risen  to  be  foreman  in  his  employ- 
ment, trusted  and  respected  by  his  masters,  and 
obeyed  by  those  under  him  with  the  scrupulous- 
ness which  inferior  natures  observe  in  their  rela- 
tions with  a  powerful  will.  He  has  married  a 
religious  woman,  who  would  only  accept  his  pro- 
posal on  condition  of  his  remaining  always  a 
soldier  in  the  Salvation  Army,  and  they  both 
work  for  the  Army,  heart  and  soul,  in  their  spare 
time.  The  home  is  one  of  the  happiest  in  the 
district;  Danny's  bargaining  in  the  matter  of  old 
furniture  astonishing  the  whole  neighbourhood. 
Such  muslin  curtains  in  the  windows,  such  flower- 
boxes  on  the  sills,  such  carpets,  pictures,  easy 
chairs,  and  mantelpiece  ornaments,  are  not  to  be 


168  A  COPPER  BASHER 

matched  for  miles  around.  "  Oh,  yes,"  said  one 
of  his  friends;  "  he's  a  daddy  for  home." 

In  spite  of  his  appearance,  which  repels  me,  in 
spite  of  his  manner,  which  repulses  me,  this  once 
low  brute  has  reached  from  vileness  to  goodness, 
and  is  a  force  on  the  side  of  religion.  He  loves 
his  children  very  tenderly,  he  would  no  more 
whine  or  cadge  than  maltreat  a  drunken  man,  and 
he  is  never  too  tired  to  do  a  service,  never  un- 
willing to  help  in  any  good  and  noble  work. 
Conversion  has  not  altered  his  appearance  or  his 
manner;  but  it  has  given  him  a  new  soul. 

Let  this  incident  show  to  what  point  in  spiritu- 
ality such  a  base  nature  may  be  brought  by  re- 
ligion. Not  long  ago  one  of  his  sisters,  a  flaming 
Roman  Catholic,  who  seems  to  loathe  her  brother 
more  now  for  his  Salvationism  than  ever  she  did 
for  his  crimes,  came  to  the  open-air  Sunday  meet- 
ing of  this  corps,  openly  reviled  and  mocked  her 
brother  before  the  whole  street,  and  finally  struck 
him  a  stinging  blow  across  the  mouth. 

All  that  Danny  did  was  to  cross  to  the  other 
side  of  the  ring.  His  look  was  very  ugly;  he  was 
as  white  as  a  sheet,  his  eyes  hardened  and  ex- 
pressed that  which  almost  frightened  some  people ; 
but  he  restrained  himself,  held  his  peace,  and  kept 
his  hands  off  the  virago. 

When  you  think  what  this  man  had  been,  you 
realize  the  merit  of  his  conduct,  and  the  miracle 
of  his  new  character. 


VII 
LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

MRS.  BURRUP,  from  the  earliest  days  of 
her  marriage,  was  fond  of  a  glass.  But 
when  her  husband  died,  leaving  her  with 
a  baby,  this  fondness  changed  to  a  deep  and 
abiding  affection.  She  could  earn  sufficient 
money  by  charing  and  laundry  work  to  drown 
her  bereavement  in  drink,  and  she  proceeded  to 
drown  it  in  the  company  of  other  lonely  women 
who  preferred  the  spacious  atmosphere  of  a 
public-house  to  the  pathos  of  the  vacant  chair. 
On  these  visits  to  the  tavern  she  took  her  baby 
in  her  arms,  and  there  the  little  boy  was  en- 
couraged to  be  good  and  quiet  and  grateful  by 
having  his  lips  occasionally  stroked  by  a  finger 
dipped  in  gin.  He  was  still  little  more  than  an 
infant  when  Mrs.  Burrup  temporarily  divided  her 
fondness  for  a  glass  with  a  second  husband,  a 
man  who  had  at  least  one  taste  in  common  with 
the  widow — devotion  to  a  glass.  The  happy 
couple  drank  together,  and  the  child,  changed 
from  lap  to  lap  in  the  public-house,  became  dimly 
aware  of  some  alteration  in  the  physical  universe 
— tasting  now  the  finger  of  his  mother,  and  now 
the  finger  of  his  stepfather. 


170  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

-^ 

When  he  was  old  enough  to  understand  things, 
he  perceived  that  the  prevailing  character  of  hu- 
man life  was  trouble.  The  relations  between  his 
mother  and  stepfather  were  strained.  From 
morning  to  night  the  voices  of  these  two  grown- 
ups were  in  a  loud  key.  Occasionally  their  arms 
whirled  and  one  of  them  would  fall  to  the  floor, 
rising  with  a  reddened  eye  to  shout  fierce-sound- 
ing words  after  the  departing  figure  of  the  other. 
The  child  had  some  knowledge  of  what  whirling 
arms  signified.  Occasionally  he  came  in  for  a 
cuff,  a  shaking,  or  a  peremptory  smacking.  Later, 
the  boy  discovered  that  he  was  generally  hungry. 
This  discovery  swallowed  up  interest  in  all  other 
phenomena.  He  was  quite  young  when  he  learned 
to  look  after  the  cravings  of  his  own  stomach. 
He  did  not  steal,  as  so  many  boys  in  poor  London 
do  steal,  merely  for  the  sake  of  adventure  and 
the  love  of  danger,  but  rather  in  the  rude,  bar- 
baric, and  honest  fashion  of  our  ancestors,  to 
satisfy  the  demands  of  his  body.  He  stole  per- 
sistently. This  poor  little  ragged  child,  slinking 
through  the  crowded  streets  of  the  metropolis, 
was  like  a  famished  animal  hunting  for  prey. 
He  hunted  for  his  food.  The  well-fed  members 
of  a  Hunt  can  have  no  idea,  following  hounds, 
of  the  real  excitement  of  a  chase.  The  little  boy, 
creeping  up  to  shop  doors,  or  diving  in  and  out 
of  costermongers'  barrows,  with  a  sharp  eye  for 
policemen,  and  a  gnawing  wolf  in  his  stomach, 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  171 

could  have  told  them  what  hunting  actually  is. 
He  was  fox  and  hound;  he  experienced  the 
dangers,  delights,  and  difficulties  of  running  with 
the  hare  and  hunting  with  the  hounds.  He 
hunted  food  and  was  hunted  by  society.  It  is 
not  to  be  expected  that  a  little  ignorant,  hungry 
boy  could  prey  upon  respectable  and  law-abiding 
tradesmen  with  impunity,  could  outwit  the  watch- 
fulness and  sagacity  of  that  immense  force  which 
society  has  raised  for  its  protection  against 
thieves,  villains,  pariahs,  and  outcasts.  Again 
and  again  the  poor  little  creature  was  laid  by 
the  heels — that  is  to  say,  had  the  lobe  of  an  ear 
caught  between  the  thumb  and  index  of  a  police- 
man, and  found  himself  marched  thus  ignomini- 
ously  home  to  the  buckle-end  of  his  stepfather's 
strap.  If  he  managed  to  elude  the  police,  seldom 
a  day  went  by  when  some  watchful  young  trades- 
man at  his  shop  door  did  not  "  fetch  him  a  crack 
on  the  head,"  just  as  a  warning  not  to  steal  from 
that  particular  shop. 

The  boy's  life  consisted  of  more  kicks  than  half- 
pence. He  was  one  of  those  shivering,  dirty,  and 
neglected  little  creatures  who  creep  about  the 
streets  on  naked  feet,  with  the  rain  wetting  their 
mat  of  hair,  and  the  wind  driving  at  their  ragged 
jackets — forlorn,  famished,  and  wretched.  This 
little  pale,  blue-lipped,  shivering  child  was  more 
like  a  homeless  dog  than  a  mother's  son.  If 
someone  had  caught  him  early  in  those  cruel 


172  LOWEST, OF  THE  LOW 

days,  had  taken  him  from  that  wicked  environ- 
ment, taught  him  habits  of  cleanliness  and  self- 
respect,  given  him  some  idea  of  good  and  honour, 
placed  him  in  a  position  where  he  could  see  life 
as  a  pleasant  thing,  and  reasonably  understand 
the  metaphor  which  calls  Providence  a  Father, 
he  might  have  grown  into  a  manhood  worthy  of 
civilization  and  religion;  he  might  have  been 
saved  from  infamy.  But  no  one,  except  the  po- 
lice, took  notice  of  this  little  child.  None  of  the 
numerous  charitable  agencies  to  which  humanity 
subscribes  what  it  can  afford  out  of  its  plenty, 
discovered  this  waif,  rescued  this  stray,  saved  this 
outcast.  Beaten  by  a  drunken  stepfather,  neg- 
lected by  a  drunken  mother,  kicked  and  cuffed  by 
tradesmen,  hunted  and  arrested  by  the  police — 
always  dirty,  always  hungry,  always  afraid,  this 
mite  in  the  midst  of  vast  London  was  utterly 
without  friend  or  helper,  utterly  alone  with  the 
wolf  gnawing  at  his  vitals.  Is  it  not  terrible 
to  think  that  we  can  devise  nothing  to  save  such 
suffering  as  this? 

He  was  caught  at  a  bad  piece  of  stealing  when 
he  was  just  beginning  his  teens,  and  was  taken 
to  the  police-station  like  a  criminal,  locked  up  in  a 
cell,  and  tried  on  the  following  morning  by  a 
magistrate  in  the  police-court.  His  sentence  was 
six  months  in  a  reformatory  school. 

Either  the  methods  of  that  school  were  not 
good,  or  the  boy's  bad  habits  had  struck  too  deep 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  173 

a  root  in  his  character.  He  did  not  at  any  rate 
encounter  such  affection  or  deep  interest  in  his 
career  as  to  turn  his  heart.  He  left  the  school 
better  fed  and  better  clothed  than  when  he  entered 
it,  and  he  certainly  returned  home  with  some  faint 
notion  of  discipline  and  order.  But  his  heart  was 
not  touched. 

Miserable  in  his  home,  sick  of  himself  and  his 
own  freedom,  he  left  his  parents  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  and  after  wandering  about  the  world  till 
he  was  dead  hungry,  dead  tired,  and  dead 
wretched,  enlisted  as  a  soldier.  He  welcomed 
the  army  as  a  sure  and  fairly  decent  "  doss."  He 
had  clothes,  a  bed,  almost  enough  food  for  his 
needs,  and  sufficient  at  the  end  of  a  week  to  buy 
a  drink.  He  put  up  with  the  drills  and  discipline 
for  these  advantages.  As  for  fighting  patriotism, 
honour  of  the  regiment,  and  martial  glory  of  a 
soldier's  career,  he  thought  no  more  about  those 
things  than  any  anarchist  in  Soho. 

But  as  the  monotony  of  a  soldier's  life  more 
and  more  soured  on  his  stomach,  he  took  more 
and  more  to  his  mother's  comfort  in  widowhood, 
and  became  a  hard  drinker.  The  little  boy  who 
had  hunted  for  food  in  the  London  streets  was 
now  a  tall  and  bony  man,  six  feet  in  height, 
small  of  head,  with  a  fierce  and  quarrelsome  face 
always  aflame  with  alcohol.  Continually  he  found 
himself  in  trouble  over  drunkenness,  but  he  bore 
his  punishment  without  shame  or  regret,  not  hav- 


174  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

ing  the  smallest  ambition  to  rise  in  the  service. 
However,  as  drink  laid  an  ever  stronger  hold  upon 
him,  he  more  and  more  relaxed  his  hold  upon 
himself,  he  more  and  more  resented  discipline, 
correction,  and  punishment.  He  became  choleric, 
mutinous,  and  fierce.  His  temper  was  every  day 
more  out  of  control.  When  he  was  not  in  trouble 
with  his  officers  he  was  in  trouble  with  his  mess- 
mates. He  had  the  world  against  him,  knew  it, 
and  opposed  the  world  to  the  extent  of  his  poor 
disdain  and  the  fierceness  of  his  anger. 

At  the  end  of  five  years'  troubled  soldiering  he 
had  a  dispute  with  a  corporal.  Voices  rose,  words 
became  violent.  In  the  heat  of  this  argument 
the  corporal  fell  back  upon  authority.  He  gave 
his  antagonist  an  order.  The  soldier  refused  to 
obey  it;  he  was  drunk,  and  the  command  of  a 
smaller  man  goaded  his  rage  to  madness.  The 
corporal  threatened.  At  last  the  drunken  soldier 
seized  up  his  rifle,  and  swearing  that  he  would 
murder  the  other,  made  so  good  an  attempt  that 
he  was  arrested,  tried,  and  sentenced  to  six 
months  hard  labour,  and  given  "  his  ticket " — 
that  is  to  say,  discharged  with  ignominy. 

When  he  came  out  of  prison  and  found  himself 
at  large  in  the  civilian  world,  he  was  wise  enough 
to  look  about  for  employment  before  making  a 
return  to  settled  drinking.  He  got  a  decent  job 
in  some  waterworks,  with  fair  wages,  but  took  to 
drinking  immediately  he  felt  himself  certain  of 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  175 

wages  at  the  end  of  the  week.  He  hated  his 
work.  He  appears  to  have  been  constitutionally 
incapable  of  finding  pleasure  or  interest  in  any 
employment.  He  honestly  disliked  all  physical 
exertion.  It  irked  him,  irritated  him,  bored  him. 
But  nothing  really  pleased  him,  except  drink. 
Life  did  not  interest  him  in  the  least.  He  drank, 
as  his  mother  before  him,  to  drown  his  sorrow, 
to  forget  life.  What  a  world ! — where  it  is  neces- 
sary for  a  man  to  go  to  work  six  days  out  of 
seven. 

This  man  was  weighed  down  by  an  immense 
ennui. 

Drink  lost  him  this  good  employment,  and  he 
went  from  the  waterworks  to  a  distillery — a 
change  for  the  worse,  from  water  to  whisky.  It 
was  not  long  before  drunkenness  lost  him  this 
second  job,  and  in  a  tipsy  rage  at  being  dismissed 
he  had  a  row  with  the  police,  and  was  sent  to 
prison  for  three  months. 

When  he  came  out  from  prison  he  descended 
to  the  depths  of  infamy. 

It  is  impossible,  in  this  book,  to  tell  the  story 
of  his  life  at  this  point  of  his  career.  It  can  only 
be  hinted.  Coming  out  of  prison  in  rebellion 
against  the  world,  determined  that  never  again 
would  he  do  a  day's  work,  Burrup  went  to  a  pub- 
lic-house, where  he  fell  in  with  a  woman  earning 
her  own  living  by  evil  ways.  He  does  not  appear 
to  have  realized  at  once,  or  to  have  contemplated 


176  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

for  some  time,  the  nature  of  the  proposal  made  to 
him  by  this  woman.  He  was  attractive,  and  he 
thought  she  admired  him.  He  knew  that  she  was 
aware  of  his  homeless  condition;  he  thought  that 
her  invitation  to  lodge  with  her  was  just  the 
woman's  kindness,  born  of  admiration.  He  ac- 
cepted it,  and  for  some  days  lodged  in  that 
fashion.  Then  he  found  himself  provided  with 
money  by  this  woman.  A  little  later,  and  he  was 
called  in  to  assist  her  in  her  business.  Of  a 
sudden  he  found  himself  the  lowest  of  men. 

Did  his  conscience  ever  smite  him  ?  Yes.  To 
this  extent :  when  the  woman's  earnings  were  not 
sufficient  for  their  needs  he  went  out  and  thieved 
for  her.  That  was  all.  Apparently  he  soon  got 
over  the  contempt  which  even  low  people  in  low 
neighbourhoods  openly  show  for  such  men.  He 
avoided  the  half-decent  population,  and  consorted 
with  men  engaged  in  the  same  horrible  para- 
sitism. All  this  time  he  was  drinking  hard,  lying 
late  in  bed,  and  lounging  in  public-houses. 

Presently  he  seems  to  have  contracted  a  spirit 
of  bravado.  He  became  definitely  and  resolutely 
a  criminal.  He  found  crime  a  sport.  He  went 
out  into  the  streets,  not  as  a  hungry  boy,  but  as  a 
thirsty  man,  and  set  himself  to  make  money  with- 
out work,  for  very  joy  of  the  undertaking.  He 
was  drinking  hard,  and  his  brain  seemed  to  be 
on  fire  with  criminal  ideas.  He  supported  his 
mistress  in  this  fashion  for  some  time;  but  was 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  177 

soon  a  marked  man,  and  therefore  from  that  mo- 
ment was  in  trouble  with  the  police.  He  was 
arrested,  time  and  again,  and  always  he  made 
such  a  fight  of  these  arrests  that  it  took  as  a  rule 
six  constables  to  strap  him  down  on  the  ambu- 
lance and  get  him  to  the  station.  Once,  when 
they  caught  him  stealing  boots,  he  so  "  bashed  " 
the  police  about  that  the  mounted  patrol  had 
to  be  called,  and  he  was  tied  to  the  horse  and 
dragged  all  the  way  to  the  station.  He  was 
generally  half  murdered  during  these  arrests, 
being  known  as  one  of  the  worst  "  copper  bash- 
ers "  in  London.  On  such  a  man  as  he  was  then 
only  God  could  have  mercy. 

Twelve  years  after  his  discharge  from  the 
army,  Burrup  looked  back  on  three  years  of  im- 
moral freedom,  and  nine  years  of  prison.  Nine 
years  out  of  the  twelve  spent  in  prison!  A  bad 
retrospect.  What  could  the  future  hold?  He 
began  to  think.  His  character  and  the  manner 
of  his  life  had  long  been  so  notorious  that  every- 
body in  the  whole  of  that  neighbourhood  knew 
about  him,  knew  about  the  woman.  Among  those 
who  knew,  and  who  thought  about  him,  were 
the  angel-adjutant  and  the  Puncher.  They  tried 
to  reach  his  soul,  tried  to  lift  him  from  infamy; 
but  he  shook  them  both  off  with  an  angry  im- 
patience. 

A  time  came,  however,  when  misery  made  him 
willing  to  hear  them.  His  mistress  was  in  gaol; 


178  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

he  was  hungry,  thirsty,  and  ashamed;  he  was 
thinking  of  the  nine  years  out  of  twelve  spent  in 
prison;  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  the  future 
held  no  hope  for  him;  that  his  to-morrow  meant 
the  prison;  that  for  ever  he  would  be  harried  and 
maltreated  by  the  police;  he  was  at  last  so  broken 
and  wretched  and  defeated  as  to  desire  some 
escape. 

He  thought  about  the  Puncher.  He  compared 
that  man's  past  and  present.  He  saw  how  mar- 
vellous was  the  change  in  that  life,  and  brooded 
upon  it.  While  he  was  thinking,  some  force  in 
his  brain  began  quietly  urging  him  to  follow  the 
Puncher,  to  do  as  he  had  done,  to  get  religion. 

He  was  aware  that  no  one  in  the  whole  of  the 
world  could  do  anything  but  despise  him.  He 
knew  that  he  was  vile,  degraded,  infamous, 
friendless.  He  knew  that  the  police  were  against 
him,  that  magistrates  were  ready  to  send  him  to 
prison  with  bitter  words  of  contempt,  that  his 
physical  strength  was  powerless  against  the  forces 
of  law  and  order,  that  his  hatred  of  society  was 
a  vain  fire  in  his  brain,  that  he  had  muddled  life 
and  had  the  whole  universe  against  him.  If  he 
told  the  world  that  he  wanted  to  live  a  better 
life,  the  world  would  spurn  him.  Not  a  soul 
would  believe  him.  He  had  asked  his  prison 
visitor,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  during  his  last 
term,  if  someone  could  not  help  him  to  go 
straight;  and  he  received  not  only  no  help,  but  no 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  179 

encouragement  to  desire  a  better  life.  He  felt 
that  there  was  only  one  hope  for  him,  the  Army 
that  had  made  the  Puncher  a  decent  good  man 
with  a  comfortable  home. 

That  was  the  illumination  of  this  sunken  and 
degraded  soul.  "  I  had  watched  the  Puncher's 
life,  I  had  seen  it  running  clean  and  straight;  and 
I  resolved  all  of  a  sudden  that  if  God  could  do 
such  a  miracle  as  that,  I  would  have  a  cut  at  it 
too."  The  diction  is  of  the  smallest  moment. 
This  man's  desire  to  have  "  a  cut  at  it,"  trans- 
lated into  the  most  wistful  phrasing  of  an  ex- 
quisite mysticism,  would  still  beggar  the  words. 
The  desire  was  the  miracle.  It  was  a  movement 
of  the  soul  in  the  spiritual  sphere.  When  he  felt 
a  longing  to  try  religion,  his  soul  said,  "  I  will 
arise  and  go  to  my  Father,"  and  he  had  come  to 
himself.  His  mind,  blundering  with  words  and 
concerned  with  material  things,  must  not  obscure 
for  us  the  hidden  movements  of  his  spirit  waking 
from  death,  turning  to  the  light  and  desiring  rest. 
This  man,  with  all  his  abomination  thick  about 
him,  was  subliminally  moving  towards  God. 
Whatever  the  spring  of  his  desire,  whatever  the 
cause  of  his  awakening,  he  desired  to  be  better; 
that  is  to  say,  he  turned  his  face  to  the  light. 

He  went  straight  to  the  hall  of  the  Salvation 
Army,  sat  by  himself  at  the  back  of  the  room, 
listened  to  the  hymns,  prayers,  and  readings, 
heard  the  preaching  and  the  invitation,  rose  from 


180  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

his  seat,  marched  to  the  platform,  knelt  down  at 
the  penitent  form,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  God 
be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner! " 

The  past  dropped  from  him  like  a  ragged 
garment.  He  was  conscious  of  a  great  cleans- 
ing. A  yearning  of  his  soul  carried  him  far 
away  from  the  hall,  the  Salvationists,  and  the 
congregation  of  prayerful  people.  He  was  caught 
up  into  a  glowing  region  of  light  and  intensest 
satisfaction.  Dumb  and  breathless,  he  knelt  with 
his  face  in  his  hands,  conscious  only  of  the  radi- 
ance, the  peace,  and  the  joy.  He  did  not  think 
"  I  am  forgiven,"  or  "  I  am  saved  " ;  he  only 
knew  vividly,  and  yet  in  a  state  of  dream,  that 
he  was  at  last  perfectly  happy. 

He  came  out  of  this  ecstasy  to  the  mothering 
tenderness  of  the  adjutant  and  the  paternal  kind- 
ness of  the  Puncher.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
whole  life  he  was  surrounded  and  supported  by 
pure  affection.  If  the  delirious  joy  of  his  ecstasy 
had  passed  and  faded  like  a  dream,  at  least  he 
was  not  left  alone;  he  was  with  good  people,  who, 
knowing  his  old  vileness,  showed  him  love;  who, 
knowing  the  desperate  record  of  his  past,  showed 
him  trust. 

He  felt  a  strength  come  to  his  limbs  and  a 
power  to  his  mind.  He  would  be  worthy  of  these 
friends.  He  said,  "  I  know  what  has  happened 
to  me."  They  asked  him  what  ?  He  said,  "  I 
have  been  given  a  second  chance." 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  181 

In  a  conversation  with  the  adjutant  it  was  de- 
cided that  he  should  marry  his  mistress  when  she 
came  out  of  prison,  and  make  it  a  part  of  his  life's 
work  to  save  her  soul.  The  Salvation  Army  does 
not  make  repentance  an  easy  and  a  pleasant 
thing;  they  certainly  do  not  let  a  man  buy  an 
indulgence  for  his  past.  If  man  or  woman  comes 
for  salvation,  and  being  saved,  confesses  to  some 
undiscovered  crime,  the  Army  insists  upon  con- 
fession to  the  wronged  person,  and  to  absolute 
reparation.  This  is  not  done  here  and  there, 
occasionally;  it  is  a  fixed  rule;  obligatory  upon 
all  penitents  throughout  the  world.  Many  who 
come  to  the  penitent  form  go  straight  to  prison 
to  prove  repentance  real,  suffering  for  felonies 
undiscovered  and  now  impossible  to  discover. 

Burrup  began  his  new  life  by  hawking  flowers. 
He  got  sufficient  money  to  buy  two  pots  of 
flowers,  and  walked  about  the  streets  till  he  had 
sold  them.  The  purchaser  of  the  last  pot,  taking 
compassion  on  the  man,  talked  to  him,  and  gave 
him  temporary  employment.  A  lady  of  title  in- 
terested in  the  Army  gave  him  an  engagement 
for  six  weeks.  In  both  cases  he  received  the 
very  highest  reference  for  honesty,  sobriety,  and 
painstaking  industry. 

But  before  his  second  employment  came,  he  had 
had  his  last  meeting  with  the  woman.  He  and 
the  adjutant  went  to  the  prison  to  receive  this 
poor  creature  on  the  threshold  of  her  freedom. 


182  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

She  started  at  the  sight  of  the  Salvationist,  and 
stared  first  at  the  adjutant  and  then  at  Burrup, 
silent  and  perplexed.  The  adjutant  told  her  that 
Burrup  had  determined  to  live  a  clean  and  re- 
spectable life,  that  he  wished  to  begin  that  new 
life  by  an  act  of  duty,  by  marrying  the  woman 
who  had  been  his  mistress,  and  that  before  they 
could  become  man  and  wife,  it  would  be  well  if 
she  would  place  herself  in  one  of  the  Salvation 
Army's  homes. 

The  woman  fired  up  at  this  suggestion.  She 
not  only  resented  the  idea  of  entering  a  home, 
but  mocked  Burrup  for  wishing  to  marry  her. 
The  adjutant  pleaded,  the  woman  grew  more  vio- 
lent and  contemptuous.  It  was  not  until  she  saw 
how  hopeless  was  her  mission  that  the  adjutant 
gently  reproached  the  woman  for  her  evil.  At 
this,  curses  and  blasphemies  took  the  place  of 
contempt.  The  adjutant  and  her  convert  moved 
away.  The  woman  followed  them.  Through  the 
crowded  streets  the  convert  had  to  march  at  the 
Salvationist's  side  with  this  virago  following  at 
his  heels,  shouting  out  to  all  the  world  what  he 
had  been,  cursing  him,  spitting  on  him.  The 
man  endured  it,  very  white  of  face  and  grim, 
without  a  word.  It  would  have  been  easier  for 
some  people,  perhaps,  to  face  a  den  of  lions. 

"  I  hailed  a  bus,"  the  adjutant  tells  me,  "  com- 
pelling her  to  stay  behind,  and  we  left  her,  feeling 
that  we  could  not  do  anything  with  her,  as  she 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  183 

was  not  willing  to  leave  her  life  of  sin."  That  is 
the  test  without  which  help  is  of  no  avail.  Until 
a  soul  hates  evil,  little  can  be  done;  until  it  desires 
good,  nothing. 

For  some  little  time  the  woman  martyred  the 
poor  man  struggling  to  lead  a  clean  and  virtuous 
life.  She  haunted  his  lodgings  and  insulted  him 
in  public.  She  did  all  she  could  to  drag  him 
down,  to  break  his  heart,  to  drive  him  mad.  But 
he  stuck  to  his  work,  suffered  her  annoyance,  and 
never  once  looked  back. 

He  set  himself  another  task.  This  woman  re- 
fused to  let  him  save  her.  There  was  another 
woman  to  whom  he  felt  responsible — his 
mother. 

Look  quietly  and  steadily  at  the  effects  of  con- 
version, the  fruits  of  repentance,  in  this  man's 
soul.  I  think  they  are  worth  considering.  Re- 
member what  he  had  been,  the  lowest  of  the  low; 
consider  the  privation,  destitution,  and  crime  of 
his  earliest  childhood;  see  him  as  he  was  all 
through  his  life,  a  thief,  pander,  bully,  and  aban- 
doned drunkard;  and  then  mark  him  after  mo- 
mentary conversion,  continuing  his  hard  work, 
quietly  maintaining  his  honesty  and  sobriety  under 
the  mocking  persecution  of  his  former  partner 
in  crime,  and  above  all  things,  setting  himself  to 
discover  the  whereabouts  of  his  mother — that 
mother  to  whose  neglect  he  might  justly  have 
attributed  all  the  suffering,  ignominy,  and  spirit- 


184  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

ual  ruin  of  his  life — in  order  that  he  might  save 
her  soul. 

The  more  one  thinks  about  Burrup,  the  more 
one  apprehends  the  tremendous  power  of  religion. 
Conversion  did  not  make  him  merely  a  sober  and 
industrious  man.  That  alone  would  have  been  a 
miracle,  for  he  loved  drink  as  he  hated  work. 
But  conversion  did  more  for  him.  It  washed 
away  from  his  soul  at  a  single  stroke  all  the 
obstruction  of  ingrained  habits,  cleansed  him 
from  every  impulse  of  his  moral  madness,  and 
made  him  at  once  tender,  loving,  considerate,  and 
pure.  He  was  not  content  with  saving  his  own 
soul;  conversion  would  not  let  him  rest  in  per- 
sonal security  or  in  flattering  self -righteousness; 
he  was  driven  by  the  spirit,  gladly  and  rejoicingly, 
to  make  others  aware  of  spiritual  peace. 

And,  as  we  say,  he  sought  out  the  mother 
whose  neglect  in  infancy  had  sown  the  seeds  of 
all  his  ruin  and  disgrace. 

He  found  her  in  great  wretchedness.  The 
stepfather  had  abandoned  her,  and  she  was  ex- 
posed to  all  the  privations  and  cruelties  which 
beset  a  solitary  poor  woman  at  the  threshold  of 
old  age.  The  son  told  her  of  his  life,  told  her 
of  his  conversion,  and  asked  if  she  would  not 
come  and  share  his  home  and  his  happiness. 

This  is  a  new  version  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 
Nobler  story  of  its  kind,  noble  in  all  its  simplicity 
and  humility,  can  hardly  be  conceived.  This 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  185 

prodigal  did  not  return  to  the  shelter  and  love  of 
a  rich  and  righteous  parent,  ready  with  rewards; 
but,  when  he  had  come  to  himself,  he  set  out  to 
save  that  which  was  lost,  set  out  to  offer  his 
shelter  and  his  love  to  a  bad  mother  who  could 
only  be  a  load  and  burden  to  him;  and  truly  it 
may  be  said  that  when  he  was  a  great  way  off 
he  saw  her,  and  ran  and  fell  upon  her  neck,  and 
kissed  her,  so  eager  and  passionate  was  the  desire 
of  his  soul  to  save  this  woman. 

Happiness  came  to  him  in  the  response  made  by 
the  broken-hearted  mother  to  his  offers  of  affec- 
tion. She  was  like  one  raised  from  the  dead,  and 
clung  to  her  strong  son  with  beseeching  and  heart- 
breaking pleadings  not  to  be  left  again,  not  to 
be  left  in  misery  and  despair.  Her  cry  for  for- 
giveness to  him  was  like  a  cry  to  God.  The  son 
saved  by  God,  in  God's  strength  saved  his  mother. 
In  their  first  embrace,  they  realized  to  the  full 
the  need  for  religion,  and  both  experienced  at 
least  some  of  the  satisfaction  of  spiritual  peace. 
Only  religion  could  have  saved  the  son,  only  re- 
ligion could  have  sent  the  son  to  save  his  mother. 
They  had  both  lived  without  religion;  and  they 
had  both  suffered.  Now,  in  the  awakening  of 
spiritual  consciousness,  they  perceived  that  only 
religion  made  life  pure,  sweet,  and  sacred. 

She  could  hardly  believe  that  it  was  indeed 
her  son  who  came  to  lift  her  up.  She  could 
hardly  believe  that  the  terrible  nightmare  of  her 


186  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

dark  life  had  really  come  to  an  end.  And  she  was 
like  a  character  in  the  Arabian  Nights  when  he 
led  her  away  from  her  destitution  and  showed 
her  the  home  that  his  love  had  prepared  for  her. 
Religion  has  these  earthly  enchantments. 

Burrup's  home  is  one  of  the  brightest  and 
happiest  in  London.  It  is  full  of  the  decorations 
and  showiness  with  which  a  London  workman 
loves  to  manifest  both  his  prosperity  and  his 
domesticity,  and  all  these  fine  things  are  kept  in 
a  state  of  glory  by  the  saved  mother,  who  now 
has  no  thought  but  of  showing  her  gratitude  to 
her  son  with  duster  and  broom,  and  serving  him 
all  the  days  of  her  life.  She  is  converted  to  his 
religion,  and  son  and  mother  are  as  loyally  and 
devotedly  attached  to  each  other  as  any  pair  of 
human  beings  in  the  world.  He  loves  to  put 
by  his  savings  to  give  his  mother  little  treats 
and  surprises — oh,  quite  little  treats  and  sur- 
prises, for  they  are  poor  people;  and  she  on  her 
part  loves  to  make  him  some  tempting  dish  for 
his  supper,  and  by  her  labour  to  keep  his  linen 
and  his  wardrobe  in  apple-pie  order  to  show  her 
gratitude  for  his  love  and  her  own  pride  in  her 
son.  They  are  quite  beautiful  in  their  love,  and 
if  Burrup  is  proud  of  anything  in  his  life  it  is 
that  he  can  support  his  mother. 

It  is  long  since  he  was  converted,  and  he  has 
never  married.  Perhaps  some  memory  of  the 
base  past  keeps  him  back,  makes  him  shrink 


LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW  187 

from  offering  himself  to  a  good  woman.  Or,  is  it 
that  he  really  loves  his  mother  more  than  any- 
thing in  life,  and  is  completely  happy  in  their 
domestic  companionship  ? 

Completely  happy  ? 

One  thinks  that  he  is  not  completely  happy; 
that  the  memory  of  the  past  still  haunts  his  peace ; 
and  that  he  will  never  wholly  escape,  as  he  did  in 
the  radiance  of  his  conversion,  from  the  black 
shadow  of  his  dead  iniquity. 

There  are  those  in  the  world,  to  this  very  day, 
who  like  to  remind  him  of  what  he  was.  You 
have  no  idea,  perhaps,  how  difficult  it  is  for  a 
man  to  live  out  his  repentance  in  poor  London. 

He  said  to  one  of  his  friends  the  other  day, 
after  talking  over  the  dark  days  behind  him — 
suddenly  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height 
and  assuming  the  look  of  dignity  which  becomes 
his  proud,  silent,  and  soldier-like  face :  "  Several 
would  like  to  see  me  go  back;  ah,  several!  But 
there  is  nothing  to  go  back  for.  I  know,  as  God 
knows,  that  I  am  far  from  perfect.  But — I  am 
better  than  I  used  to  be." 

Do  not  mistake  this  clear  assertion  for  self- 
righteousness.  Burrup  said,  and  says  to  this  day, 
that  his  conversion  was  a  second  chance.  He 
does  not  talk  about  the  love  of  God.  He  thinks 
that  he  has  yet  a  long  way  to  go,  and  he  is  watch- 
ing himself.  God  has  given  him  a  second  chance. 
He  stands  firm  on  that  conviction,  and  marks 


188  LOWEST  OF  THE  LOW 

carefully  his  conduct  under  the  mercy  of  this 
chance.  Quite  truthfully  and  honestly  he  says, 
"  I  am  far  from  perfect."  With  a  profound  grat- 
itude, a  London  workman's  sursum  cor  da,  he 
adds,  "  I  am  better  than  I  used  to  be." 


VIII 
THE  PLUMBER 

HE  made  a  bad  start  of  life.  At  the  age  of 
six  he  was  running  every  morning  to  a 
public-house  for  his  mother's  "  livener." 
To  get  even  with  this  mother  for  routing  him 
out  of  bed  before  the  day  was  aired,  he  used 
to  drink  some  of  the  beer,  occasionally  some  of 
the  gin.  The  curiosity  of  a  child's  mind  may 
be  seen  in  this,  that  he  arranged  these  revengeful 
sips  for  moments  when  he  would  be  observed  by 
other  children.  It  was  a  piece  of  swagger,  as 
well  as  the  savage  action  of  revenge.  Such  can 
be  the  mind  of  a  child  of  six. 

A  recent  Act  of  Parliament  has  put  an  end 
to  what  was  once  a  common  incident  of  the 
London  streets  in  early  mornings — little  half- 
dressed,  bare-legged  children  creeping  along  close 
to  the  houses  with  a  pot  of  beer  in  their  hands. 
Many  people  have  wondered  to  what  ends  such 
children  would  grow.  This  is  the  story  of  a 
man  who  began  life  in  that  fashion. 

His  father  was  a  hard  and  brutal-minded  man, 
but  not  a  drunkard.  His  mother,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  "  addicted  to  drink."  Her  addiction 
began  at  the  moment  when  she  woke  from  her 

189 


190  THE  PLUMBER 

sleep,  it  lasted  through  the  day,  and  was  at  its 
fullest  power  at  the  hour  when  publicans  close 
their  doors  and  count  their  takings.  She  was 
one  of  those  women  typical  of  street  corners, 
court  entries,  and  the  bench  of  the  public  bar. 
A  hat  was  seldom  on  her  head,  her  hair  hung  in 
a  loose  knot  over  her  neck,  her  face — which  was 
fat,  pink,  soft,  and  shining — cleaned  itself  when 
it  felt  hot  with  the  dirty  end  of  an  apron.  She 
was  a  big  woman,  huge-armed,  immense  in  the 
bosom,  broad  in  the  hips,  round-shouldered,  and 
firm-necked.  There  was  a  sullen  savagery  in  her 
small  eyes,  a  bitter  ferocity  in  her  lips;  her  voice 
was  harsh,  fierce,  and  vigorous.  A  typical 
mother  of  the  London  slums  thirty  years  ago, 
and  a  type  still  to  be  seen  among  the  little  white- 
faced  rats  and  ferrets  of  the  present  generation. 
She  did  no  work.  The  children  were  given  half- 
pence to  get  their  meals  at  barrows,  coffee-stalls, 
and  fried-fish  shops.  This  habit  of  taking  one's 
meals  in  restaurants  has  since  spread  to  the 
fortunate  classes,  one  of  many  fashions  which 
the  upper  class  has  borrowed  from  the  lowest;  in 
the  case  of  this  woman  the  habit  grew  from  a 
branch  of  the  servant  problem,  her  own  consti- 
tutional and  impatient  disgust  for  domestic  work; 
it  is  a  spirit  common  in  the  slums— contempt  for 
work.  The  father,  a  navvy,  tried  to  cure  his  wife 
of  her  addiction.  He  tried  with  both  hands. 
The  impression  he  made  upon  her  was  visible  to 


THE  PLUMBER  191 

the  naked  eye,  but  the  addiction  still  flourished  in 
the  grey  matter  beyond  the  reach  of  fists,  hob- 
nails, and  straps.  Disappointed  in  the  failure  of 
his  persuasive  powers,  and  occasionally  vexed 
to  find  no  food  in  the  house,  the  navvy  eased  his 
ruffled  feelings  by  "  strapping  the  kids."  He 
was  a  man  with  a  troubled  brow,  a  sad  eye,  and 
a  voice  that  growled  curses  on  God  and  human 
life  with  a  dull  monotony.  It  was  not  a  happy 
home,  and  not  in  the  least  original.  It  was  one 
of  thousands  and  thousands  of  precisely  similar 
homes  in  London.  Cupid,  when  he  descends  to 
the  London  gutter,  appears  to  delight  in  the 
wanton  mischief  of  making  these  unequal  mar- 
riages— the  sober  man  yoked  to  the  drunken 
woman,  the  drunken  man  yoked  to  the  sober  wife, 
with  always  the  drunken  party  in  the  ascendant. 
The  parents  of  the  man  in  this  story  were  very 
like  the  parents  of  tens  of  thousands  of  children 
now  playing  in  the  streets  of  London,  or  carrying 
their  penny  for  dinner  to  the  gaudy  barrow  of 
the  Italian  vendor  of  ice-cream. 

And  I  do  not  think  the  child  was  abnormal 
in  the  earliness  of  his  cunning.  It  is  common  to 
find  quite  small  infants  in  shabby  districts  adept 
at  tricks  which  in  their  elders  are  crimes.  This 
child  was  naturally  quick-witted,  intelligent, 
bright,  and  humorous.  To  this  day  he  has  the 
roguish,  pleasant  face  of  a  comic  singer.  It 
struck  him  as  a  relief  from  strappings  and  other 


192  THE  PLUMBER 

home  discomforts  to  practise  sharpness  in  the 
world  outside.  He  was  one  of  a  great  swarm  of 
little  hungry,  dirty-faced  boys  wandering  through 
the  streets  of  London  looking  for  what  they 
could  pick  up.  He  was  a  really  smart  boy  when 
he  went  out  to  work,  so  smart,  indeed,  as  to  begin 
at  once  making  money  on  his  own  account.  He 
served  a  milkman.  A  very  simple  facility  in 
sleight-of-hand  earned  him  threepence  or  four- 
pence  a  day.  By  spilling  his  dipper  as  he  took 
the  measure  from  the  can,  and  giving  an  extra 
drop  afterwards  which  appeared  even  more  than 
he  spilled,  but  which  was  carefully  less,  he  always 
had  milk  for  sale  at  the  bottom  of  his  can  on 
which  his  master  had  no  call.  In  this  way  he 
flourished,  earned  the  reputation  for  being  a  sin- 
gularly smart  and  cheerful  boy,  and  was  soon  able 
to  get  a  place  in  a  shop.  It  was  so  easy  to  steal 
in  this  place  that  he  was  found  out.  He  was 
sent  to  prison. 

A  check  of  this  kind  makes  some  impression 
on  a  sensitive  boy,  however  immoral  his  up- 
bringing. He  came  out  of  prison  with  the  idea 
of  never  going  back  there  again  if  he  could  help 
it.  Reformation  having  appeared,  he  was  assisted 
to  learn  a  trade.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  firm 
of  plumbers  and  gasfitters. 

"  Of  all  the  trades  in  this  world,"  he  says,  with 
emphasis,  "  the  plumber's  is  the  thickest " ;  that 
is  to  say,  the  worst  from  a  moral  point  of  view. 


THE  PLUMBER  193 

"  I  don't  know  what  it's  like  now,  I  hope  it's 
better;  if  it  is,  it's  a  marvel.  But  my  experience 
is  this — there  isn't  a  bigger  set  of  thieves  than 
plumbers.  How  it  comes  about,  I  don't  know; 
carpenters  are  different,  every  trade  is  different, 
but  plumbers  seem  as  if  they  can't  help  being 
what  they  are,  which  is  hot,  and  no  mistake. 
I'd  as  soon  have  a  burglar  on  my  premises  any 
day  as  a  London  plumber.  That's  a  strong  thing 
to  say,  isn't  it?  That's  a  rum  thing  to  say  of 
a  whole  trade  ?  Ah,  but  it's  true." 

His  first  experience  of  this  trade  with  a  bad 
name  was  the  hardening  process.  The  boy  ap- 
prentice comes  in  at  once  for  that  brutalizing 
tyranny  which  throughout  the  poorest  quarters 
of  London,  even  among  respectable  people,  seems 
to  regard  all  politeness,  cleanliness,  and  affection 
as  signs  of  an  evil  effeminacy.  If  you  go  into 
any  of  the  London  parks,  the  Regent's,  for  in- 
stance, and  stand  where  poor  children  are  playing 
in  a  swarm,  you  will  never  hear  a  sweet  or  gentle 
voice.  Sisters  shout  across  distance  at  each 
other  as  though  they  were  challenging  to  a  fight : 
"  Come  here,  can't  you  ?  "  "  Emmy,  d'you  hear 
what  I  say ! — come  here  at  once !  "  "  Shut  your 
noise !  "  "  You're  a  liar !  "  Cries  and  calls  such 
as  these,  and  all  uttered  in  voices  of  ferocity,  are 
the  common  language  of  London  childhood.  And 
it  is  only  a  part  of  a  very  wide  and  potent  force 
in  the  national  character — the  hard  sternness 


194  THE  PLUMBER 

which  makes  the  poor  endure  their  miseries  in 
silence,  the  unyielding  fortitude  which  supports 
them  in  an  abject  poverty  and  a  vile  destitution 
which  they  believe  natural,  inevitable,  life  in  the 
real.  I  have  heard  scores  and  scores  of  working 
people  speak  about  the  upper  classes  as  people 
who  are  unreal,  a  nursery  of  children  playing 
with  dolls'-houses.  The  real  life  is  the  hard 
life  of  poverty. 

"  They  were  very  warm  to  me,"  says  the 
Plumber.  "  I  tell  you  it  was  no  fun  to  have  a 
two- foot  steel  rule  walking  round  your  ribs. 
Anything  not  done  just  as  they  wanted  it  to  be 
done,  anything  blundered  over  in  the  very  slight- 
est— swish ! — down  came  the  rule,  and  it  was  hell 
for  days  afterwards.  I've  seen  men  in  these 
shops  take  up  a  pot  of  hot  metal — solder — and 
sling  it  at  the  head  of  a  boy  that  had  done  some- 
thing a  bit  cock-eye,  or  given  a  back  answer.  We 
had  to  look  pretty  slippy,  I  can  tell  you." 

Such  was  the  hard  and  brutalizing  start  at  his 
trade  experienced  by  the  Plumber.  But  he  was 
quick  in  the  uptake,  his  eyes  were  sharp  with  the 
cunning  of  their  childhood,  he  learned  quickly, 
did  well,  and  had  that  in  his  nature  which  made 
him  less  objectionable  in  the  eyes  of  his  masters 
than  some  others — he  was  cheerful,  amusing, 
wicked.  There  was  no  occasion  in  his  case  to 
teach  the  drink  habit.  Some  apprentices  have 
to  be  forced  to  the  pot.  He  loved  it.  He  loved 


THE  PLUMBER  195 

it,  perhaps,  as  much  for  its  swaggering  manhood 
as  anything  else,  but  still  he  loved  it  for  itself. 
He  got  a  feeling  of  comfort  from  it,  and  a  touch 
of  daring  which  exhilarated  his  spirits.  He  was 
quite  a  hard  drinker  all  through  the  days  of  his 
apprenticeship.  He  was  often  manfully  drunk, 
early  in  his  teens,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
plumbers. 

"  Up  to  sixteen  years  of  age,"  he  said,  "  I 
would  pinch  anything,  and  it  all  went  in  booze. 
After  sixteen  I  pinched  as  a  plumber,  with  dis- 
cretion, and  that,  too,  all  went  in  booze." 

About  his  boyhood's  pinchings  we  need  not 
inquire;  sufficient  is  it  that  the  training  of  his 
childhood  ruled  his  mind  with  the  idea  that  to 
steal  was  to  be  clever.  He  was,  practically,  en- 
tirely without  the  moral  sense.  His  idea  was  to 
get  money  anyhow,  and  to  spend  it  in  drink. 
But  after  sixteen  years  of  age — his  apprentice- 
ship left  behind  him,  and  his  wages  secured — he 
stole  with  discretion,  he  stole  as  a  plumber. 

There  is  one  particular  material  used  by  plumb- 
ers which  has  a  ready  sale;  it  is  sheet  lead,  or,  in 
their  parlance,  "  pigeon,"  occasionally  "  bluey." 
It  is  a  part  of  a  plumber's  day — or  shall  we  say  it 
was  a  part  of  the  old  plumber's  day? — to  steal 
sufficient  sheet  lead  to  pay  for  the  night's  beer, 
and  a  bit  over.  No  man  was  called  a  .plumber 
who  could  not  "  carry  the  pin,"  or  "  carry  the 
pony";  that  is  to  say,  who  could  not  carry  a 


196  THE  PLUMBER 

good  part  of  a  hundredweight  of  sheet  lead  inside 
his  trousers,  suspended  from  a  belt  round  his 
middle.  This  was  no  easy  task.  To  steal  the 
"  bluey  "  was  not  always  easy,  to  store  it  quickly 
away  was  sometimes  a  job,  but  to  carry  it  un- 
detected, to  walk  and  work  without  crying  out 
when  the  sheet  slipped — this  was  heroic  work. 
The  Plumber  at  sixteen  years  of  age  proved 
himself  a  hero  at  this  work. 

To  give  you  some  idea  of  the  extent  to  which 
this  thieving  is  practised,  let  me  narrate  a  single 
instance.  A  branch  office  of  a  well-known  bank 
was  erected  near  Hyde  Park,  and  my  Plumber 
was  one  of  the  many  expert  thieves  employed  on 
the  job.  Detectives  were  engaged  to  stand  in 
the  street,  not  only  to  watch  the  men  at  work, 
but  to  follow  any  of  them  who  walked  home  in 
a  manner  that  aroused  suspicion.  Now,  in  the 
contract  there  was  an  item  of  seven  tons  of  sheet 
lead  for  the  roof.  In  spite  of  foremen,  detectives, 
and  extra  precautions  in  every  way,  only  two 
and  a  half  tons  were  used,  and  not  a  single  man 
was  caught. 

Many  a  time  my  Plumber  came  down  the  long 
ladders  with  three-quarters  of  a  hundredweight 
of  sheet  lead  under  his  trousers'  belt,  and  walked 
to  his  public-house,  pipe  in  mouth,  bag  over  his 
shoulder,  like  an  honest  British  working-man, 
ready  to  floor  any  detective  who  aspersed  his 
honour. 


THE  PLUMBER  197 

This  sheet  lead  was  carried  to  what  plumbers 
call  "  sand  shops."  It  is  a  clever  phrase.  It 
signifies  "  shiftiness,"  and  stands  for  those  shops 
known  to  every  plumber  in  the  trade  as  places 
where  stolen  lead  is  bought  at  current  market 
rates.  Not  a  working  plumber  in  London  who 
does  not  know  the  market  price  of  "pigeon"; 
it  forms  a  topic  of  conversation  in  public-houses 
throughout  the  town.  The  list  of  "  sand  shops  " 
in  London  would  surprise  the  polite  world. 

At  the  first  job  to  which  the  Plumber  went  he 
had  an  experience  which  gave  him  a  "  bit  of  a 
turn."  It  was  a  building  ninety  feet  high,  near 
the  Strand.  When  he  had  climbed  the  ladder 
and  reached  the  roof,  the  men  employed  on  the 
job  suggested  that  he  should  cry  "  beer-o  " — pay 
his  footing  by  standing  a  pot  of  beer.  My  man 
said  "  No,"  with  a  Cockney's  indignation  at  be- 
ing suspected  of  any  greenness.  "  You  won't, 
won't  you?"  "No,"  he  shouted,  "I'll  see  you 
in  hell  first!" 

In  an  instant  they  were  round  him.  He  was 
pinioned,  a  rope  was  passed  under  his  arms,  and 
he  was  dropped  over  the  side  of  the  roof.  Down 
he  went,  in  sickening  jerks,  for  thirty  or  forty 
feet,  and  there  he  hung.  "  Will  you  cry  beer-o  ?  " 
they  shouted  from  the  top.  And  at  last  he  had 
to  yield.  On  the  next  day  that  same  rope  snapped 
with  a  small  load  of  sheet  lead,  which  fell  sixty 
feet  to  the  pavement  below. 


198  THE  PLUMBER 

At  eighteen,  in  spite  of  frightful  waste  in  drink, 
the  Plumber  had  sufficient  money  and  sufficient 
patrons — for  he  is  a  most  likable  and  pleasant 
fellow — to  start  in  a  little  business  of  his  own. 
He  was  now  habitually  drunk.  He  looks  back 
to  days  when,  not  occasionally,  but  as  a  regular 
thing,  he  was  working  at  the  top  of  a  ninety-rung 
ladder  which  was  not  tied  to  the  roof,  or  crossing 
in  hob-nailed  boots  iron  girders  stretched  across 
nothingness  eighty  feet  and  more  off  the  ground, 
quite  drunk. 

He  never  went  to  a  job  at  which  he  did  not 
look  for  something  besides  his  work;  and  the 
proceeds  of  this  pinching  always  went  in  drink. 
He  tells  me  that  the  contents  of  a  plumber's  bag 
would  astonish  old  gentlemen  interested  in  muse- 
ums. Let  us  hope  that  to-day  it  would  be  a 
monstrous  thing  to  swell  the  statistics  of  the 
criminal  classes  with  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
plumbing  trade. 

"  One  day,"  he  says,  "  I  was  sent  for  to  a 
toff's  house  to  look  for  an  escape  of  gas.  Me  and 
my  mate  found  the  escape,  and  it  took  some 
finding,  too,  for  it  was  behind  a  wainscot; 
but  while  we  were  looking  for  the  escape, 
we  found  something  else — a  box  of  Havan- 
nah  cigars.  Into  my  bag  they  went,  sharp; 
and  at  that  minute  in  comes  the  toff  him- 
self. 

"'Well,  have  you  found  it?' 


THE  PLUMBER  199 

" '  Yes,  sir,  we've  found  it,  sir,  and  a  nasty 
one,  too,  sir.' 

"  '  Here's  a  shilling  for  yourselves,  you've  done 
well/ 

"'  Yes,  sir,  I  think  we  have;  thank  you,  sir,' 
and  we  walked  out,  two  splendid  specimens  of 
the  honest  British  working  man!  But  it  was 
always  like  that.  And  never  once  a  feeling  of 
shame." 

Money  easily  earned,  he  quotes  with  emphatic 
conviction,  is  money  easily  spent,  which  means 
beer.  He  earned  pounds  every  week,  and  some- 
times on  Saturday  afternoon  he  was  pawning  his 
tools  for  the  evening's  finish-up. 

"  Ah,"  he  says,  "  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the 
jolly  friends  a  man  gets  in  that  way;  not  once, 
but  many  times,  my  pals  have  said  to  me,  '  Put 
your  tools  up  the  spout,  old  boy,  we'll  see  you 
through,  we'll  get  'em  out  for  you,'  and  after 
having  drunk  the  money  away,  when  I  came  to 
ask  them  for  help,  '  Get  'em  out  yourself,'  they'd 
answer;  '  you  put  'em  up,  you  get  'em  down.' 
Later  on,  when  I  was  starving — yes,  starving! — 
those  men  wouldn't  give  me  a  crust,  not  one  of 
them." 

He  got  married  before  he  was  twenty,  and  he 
vowed  soon  afterwards  that  if  his  baby  was  a 
boy  he'd  get  really  drunk  to  celebrate  the  event. 
But  he  was  impatient,  and  couldn't  wait.  He  be- 
gan three  months  before  the  child  was  born,  and 


200  THE  PLUMBER 

for  seven  years  after  he  was  always  profoundly 
drunk.  He  lost  job  after  job.  In  two  houses 
they  found  him  flat  on  his  back  in  the  cellar  with 
the  taps  of  the  wine-casks  spurting  over  his  face. 
Ferocity  began  to  manifest  itself  in  his  temper. 
He  was  strong,  and  handy  with  his  fists.  He 
fought  many  a  fight  with  the  naked  fists.  He 
picked  up  a  foreman  who  corrected  him  one  day, 
and  threw  him  through  a  glass  window.  He  was 
always  in  trouble.  His  private  business  vanished 
altogether.  He  had  to  go  about  looking  for 
work. 

Then  this  man,  bred  from  infancy  to  drink  and 
to  steal,  uninstructed  in  the  first  letters  of  moral- 
ity, educated  only  in  sharpness,  cunning,  and 
clever  dishonesty,  but  who  had  preserved  all 
through  this  base  and  scurvy  career  the  natural 
good-humour  and  cheerfulness  of  his  tempera- 
ment, became  one  of  those  wretches  who  play  the 
tyrant  in  the  house  that  they  have  ruined.  The 
Plumber  took  to  flogging  his  starved  children — 
one  of  them,  a  little  girl,  said  to  him  in  my 
presence,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  cunning 
smile,  "  We've  often  felt  the  buckle-end  of  your 
belt,  haven't  we,  daddy  ?  " — took  to  flogging,  kick- 
ing, and  striking  these  poor  starved  children,  so 
that  at  the  first  sound  of  his  footsteps  on  the  stair 
they  would  run  for  cover  under  the  bedstead. 
His  wife  withstood  him.  He  fought  her.  He 
proved  himself  her  master.  He  went  out  from 


THE  PLUMBER  201 

the  room  where  she  lay,  beaten  and  half  stunned, 
a  proud  man.  But  his  wife  was  not  cowed.  She 
nagged  him.  He  never  came  home  but  she  re- 
proached him  for  his  brutality,  his  drunkenness, 
his  abhorrent  cruelty.  One  day  in  a  fit  of  un- 
governable rage,  he  seized  her,  flung  her  down 
the  flight  of  stairs,  raced  down  after  her,  and 
aimed  a  blow  at  her  head,  which  split  the  top 
of  the  banister  and  scarred  his  wrist  for  life. 
He  all  but  murdered  her. 

And  for  drink,  everything  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on  was  sold.  The  furniture  went  from  his 
home,  his  tools,  the  clothes  of  the  children — 
everything. 

He  got  to  the  lowest  depth  but  one  to  which 
drink  can  bring  a  man.  He  reached  that  horrible 
stage  where  his  wife  stands  with  her  children  at 
the  door  of  a  public-house  waiting  for  the  hus- 
band to  come  out.  He  spent  money  on  beer 
while  the  children  of  his  body  starved  and  shiv- 
ered and  cried  at  the  door.  He  never  experienced 
one  pang  of  remorse.  Never  once  did  his  con- 
science upbraid  him.  He  got  beer  by  hook  or 
by  "crook";  there  for  him  the  universe  ended. 

One  day  the  news  reached  him  that  his  oldest 
mate,  and  the  closest  companion  of  all  his  early 
depravity,  had  joined  the  local  corps  of  the  Sal- 
vation Army.  It  made  no  difference  to  the 
Plumber.  Drunk  at  his  work,  he  went  straight 
to  the  public-house,  delivered  there  on  occasion, 


THE  PLUMBER 

for  the  diversion  of  the  company,  mock  sermons 
or  sang  comic  songs,  and  only  went  out  at  closing- 
time,  followed  home  through  the  rain  and  the 
darkness  and  the  cold  by  his  wife  with  a  baby 
at  her  breast. 

He  was  in  one  of  his  favourite  public-houses 
when  his  wife  opened  the  door  one  day,  entered, 
and  said  to  him,  "  Come  out,  or  give  me  money 
for  the  children's  food." 

He  took  no  notice.  She  waited,  looking  at 
him — watched  by  the  publican  and  the  potman — 
and  then  retired  to  the  door.  The  Plumber's 
mates  began  to  say,  "  I  wouldn't  have  the  old 
woman  follow  me  about."  He  lifted  his  face 
from  his  beer,  turned  his  head,  and  shouted  to 
the  woman  at  the  door  to  get  out,  like  a  dog. 

She  said  that  she  should  wait  there  till  he  left. 

"Will  you?"  he  cried,  with  an  oath,  laying 
down  his  pot.  And  in  a  clumsy  stride  or  two  he 
had  delivered  a  running  kick  with  his  hobnail 
boot  at  the  mother  of  his  children.  She  moved 
away,  and  escaped  a  fatal  injury. 

He  followed  her  to  the  door.  "God!"  he 

cried,  "  if  you  don't  leave  me  alone,  I'll " 

He  had  exhausted  blasphemy  and  menace.  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  concluded,  "  I'll  sign 
the  pledge." 

"  Oh,  you've  often  done  that,"  she  retorted, 
"  and  wetted  it  every  time !  " 

Now  what  actual  spring  worked  in  his  mind 


THE  PLUMBER  203 

at  these  words  it  is  difficult  to  say,  difficult  to 
conjecture.  One  can  find  nothing  in  the  man's 
past  to  suggest  a  thesis.  But  the  words  of  his 
wife  produced  an  extraordinary  effect  in  his  mind. 
He  did  not  return  to  the  public-house ;  he  did  not 
go  home  with  her;  he  walked  away  like  a  man  in 
a  dream.  He  only  knows  that  he  was  impelled 
to  walk  away.  As  he  passed  the  big  hall  occu- 
pied by  the  Salvation  Army,  he  says  he  suddenly 
felt  himself  grow  stiff  through  all  his  joints,  his 
feet  appeared  to  strike  root  into  the  ground,  he 
was  unable  to  move.  There  he  stood,  this  drunk 
man — dazed,  bewildered,  quiet — like  a  sleep- 
walker. 

While  he  stood  there  the  thought  occurred  to 
him  of  his  old  mate  who  had  joined  the  Salva- 
tion Army.  Whence  came  this  idea,  he  does  not 
know;  but  it  came.  A  desire  to  see  this  man 
made  itself  felt  in  the  Plumber's  heart,  and  with 
the  desire  the  tension  of  his  limbs  relaxed.  He 
walked  forward  and  made  his  way  up  the  stairs 
to  the  hall  door.  The  only  officers  present  at 
that  time  were  women.  When  they  saw  this 
terrible  drunken  man  approaching,  they  were 
afraid,  and  chained  the  door  against  him.  He 
looked  like  murder. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "  I  only  want  to 
know  where  lives.'* 

They  told  him  over  the  chain,  and  he  walked 
away. 


204  THE  PLUMBER 

He  found  his  friend  in  his  room. 

"  Charlie,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  get  out  of  what 
I  am.  Do  you  think  I  can  do  it  ?  " 

"  Not  alone,"  said  the  other. 

"  Tell  me,  for  Christ's  sake !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  it?     Are  you  in  earnest?  " 

"  If  ever  I  was  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  then,  you've  just  got  to  tell  God  what 
you've  told  me.  Do  it  now.  Kneel  down.  Tell 
Him." 

And  the  Plumber  knelt  down  and  uttered  his 
first  prayer. 

He  rose  dazed,  confused,  shaken.  He  was 
trembling  like  a  leaf. 

The  other  said,  "  You  must  come  to  the  meet- 
ing to-night,  and  you  must  go  to  the  penitent 
form,  and  say  out  loud  that  you're  sorry,  that  you 
want  the  new  life,  and  that  you  know  you  can 
do  nothing  yourself  to  get  it.  How  do  you  feel 
now?" 

"  All  of  a  twitter,"  said  the  Plumber. 

He  went  out  into  the  streets  alone.  He  was 
conscious  of  some  great  change  in  himself  which 
seemed  to  affect  the  world  outside  of  him.  He 
was  glad  in  himself,  and  the  outside  world  seemed 
glad.  The  pavements  shone  with  fire,  the  dis- 
tance was  a  haze  of  bright  light,  the  leaves  of  all 
the  trees  in  the  road,  he  says,  seemed  like  hands 
waving  to  him.  He  felt  that  he  had  come  out  of 
nightmare  into  a  dream.  He  was  aware  that 


THE  PLUMBER  205 

Something  had  gone  out  of  him,  that  he  had  no 
desire  for  any  of  the  things  which  hitherto  this 
vanished  Something  had  driven  him  to  seek;  he 
was  aware  of  a  swimming  and  hovering  bright- 
ness inhabiting  the  place  in  his  thought  from 
which  this  Something  had  been  expelled.  He 
was  so  happy  that  he  could  have  shouted 
for  joy.  He  was  so  frightened  of  losing  this 
ethereal  happiness  that  he  dared  not  think 
about  it.  The  drunken  man  walked  in  a 
shining  light  on  pavements  of  fire,  with  the 
trees  waving  to  him,  with  his  soul  dazed  by 
ecstasy. 

That  night  he  went  to  the  meeting,  made  his 
public  confession,  and  rose  up  with  a  deepened 
conviction  that  he  had  got  a  new  life. 

On  the  following  morning,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  untormented  by  a  craving  for  alcohol  or 
tobacco,  he  yet  found  himself  with  insufficient 
courage  to  face  the  service  in  the  open-air,  dread- 
ing the  mockery  of  the  world.  But  he  went  to 
the  evening  meeting,  and  returned  home  past 
many  a  public-house  without  the  smallest  desire 
to  enter. 

He  went  to  his  work  next  day,  guessing  what 
welcome  he  would  receive  from  his  mates.  He 
spoke  to  no  one,  and  went  straight  to  the  un- 
finished room  of  a  great  building  in  which  his 
work  lay,  and  began  his  job. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened,  and  a  group 


206  THE  PLUMBER 

of  his  old  friends  entered,  plumbers  by  trade  and 
plumbers  by  soul. 

"  Morning,  Alf." 

"  Morning." 

"Ain't  you  dry?" 

"  No." 

"  Ain't  you  got  a  thick  head  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  half  a  gauge  now  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  What,  not  just  half  a  gauge  to  oil  the 
works  ?  " 

"  No." 

After  a  pause,  "  See  your  friend  on  Saturday, 
Alf?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Go  to  the  Salvation  Army?" 

"  Yes." 

"Did  you  find  Jesus?" 

"  Yes." 

They  burst  out  laughing.  "  What !  And  you 
a  mock-preacher,  proving  there  isn't  no  God? 
Stow  it,  Alf!  Look  here,  you  take  it  quietly  by 
yourself,  when  no  one  is  looking  " — and  they  put 
a  bottle  of  beer  on  the  floor  by  his  feet,  and 
went  out,  closing  the  door. 

At  twelve  o'clock  they  came  back.  The  beer 
was  not  drunk.  They  examined  the  cork.  They 
tasted  the  liquor  to  see  that  water  had  not  been 
put  to  it.  Then  they  turned,  and  with  filthy 


THE  PLUMBER  207 

words,  vile  phrases,  and  horrible  blasphemies 
assaulted  the  poor  soul  that  had  been  born  again. 
Brutal  as  they  were,  one  must  not  judge  them 
too  harshly.  The  change  was  made  suddenly, 
and  only  a  saint  really  believes  in  repentance  for 
sin.  The  best  of  us  are  suspicious  of  the  prod- 
igal son:  we  never  believe  that  the  lost  sheep 
prefers  in  its  heart  the  fold  to  the  mountain. 

For  two  or  three  days  the  Plumber  suffered 
bitterly  at  his  work.  He  was  mocked,  taunted, 
teased,  and  insulted  with  studied  and  incessant 
cruelty.  He  bore  it  without  reproach.  Before 
the  end  of  the  week  was  reached  a  day  came  for 
the  "  rhubarb,"  that  is  to  say,  a  subsidy,  or  an 
advance  of  their  wages.  This  was  paid  in  a 
public-house.  The  Plumber  went  with  the  rest. 
While  he  waited  for  the  foreman  he  was  offered 
beer  and  chaffed  unmercifully  about  salvation. 
When  he  received  his  money,  they  told  him,  with 
a  savage  satisfaction,  that  a  score  was  against 
him  on  the  slate  for  fifteen  shillings.  He  paid 
this  money — a  small  part  of  the  price  of  his  past 
sins — and  walked  out  of  the  public-house. 

He  went  home. 

When  he  entered  the  room  where  his  children 
had  suffered  so  terribly,  and  where  absolute  star- 
vation had  only  been  kept  at  bay  by  the  toil  of 
his  wife,  he  realized  that  this  was  his  first  home- 
coming as  a  penitent.  The  woman  and  the  chil- 
dren knew  that  some  change  had  taken  place  in 


208  THE  PLUMBER 

him;  the  woman  believed  that  in  a  drunken 
moment  he  had  joined  the  Salvation  Army.  She 
expected  that  he  would  be  drunk  on  the  day  of 
the  "  rhubarb  " ;  none  believed  in  the  miracle. 

They  stood  amazed,  gaping  at  him,  because  he 
had  come  back  straight  from  work.  The  children 
looked  frightened,  the  woman  dazed. 

He  went  to  his  wife,  and  said,  "  You  want  a  bit 
of  money,  I  expect,"  and  gave  her  a  sovereign. 

She  stared  at  him,  and  then  looked  down  at  the 
gold  coin  in  the  palm  of  her  hand.  The  children 
glanced  nervously  at  each  other,  and  held  their 
breath. 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  desolate  room  for  a 
moment,  the  man  awkward,  the  woman  dazed, 
the  children  confounded. 

At  last  he  said,  "  The  kids  would  like  a  bit  of 
dinner,  wouldn't  they?  Shall  we  go  along  and 
buy  a  piece  of  meat?" 

She  continued  to  look  from  him  to  the  coin, 
from  the  coin  to  him. 

"  I'm  ready  to  go,  if  you  are,"  he  said. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  studied  him. 
"Alf,"  she  said,  "  do  you  mean  it?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and,  getting  rid  of  nervousness, 
he  kissed  her. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  kissed  his  wife, 
literally,  for  years.  It  was  the  first  time  since 
their  first  baby  was  born  that  he  had  come  home 
not  drunk  and  not  tyrannous.  All  the  bitter 


THE  PLUMBER  209 

suffering  of  the  long  past,  all  the  cruel  blows  and 
torturing  neglect,  all  the  hunger  and  ache,  the 
poverty,  wretchedness,  shame,  and  despair  of  her 
life  crowded  the  woman's  brain,  and  she  broke 
down  under  the  overpowering  contrast  of  this 
new  thing  in  her  life — affection  and  kindness. 

Was  the  hard  past  really  at  an  end  ?  Was  the 
long  monotony  of  cruelty,  starvation,  and  despair 
to  which  she  had  now  become  habituated,  truly 
broken  ? 

For  that  day,  at  any  rate,  there  was  happiness 
in  the  home. 

In  the  morning  the  Plumber  returned  to  his 
work.  He  was  not  subjected  to  mockery,  but  he 
was  given  all  the  hardest  and  dirtiest  jobs.  He 
was  so  happy  that  he  did  not  resent  this  treat- 
ment. He  began  to  sing  Salvationist  hymns. 

The  foreman  approached.  "  Stow  that  music," 
he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  The  other  men  object  to  it,  and  I  don't 
wonder,  either." 

The  Plumber  worked  in  silence.  Presently 
the  other  men  in  his  vicinity  began  to  sing.  They 
sang  all  the  vilest  songs  they  could  think  of, 
songs  that  parody  pure  love,  religion,  and  even 
elementary  refinement,  with  the  lowest  and  most 
abominable  filthiness. 

The  Plumber  was  not  a  man  to  take  persecution 
of  this  kind  with  meekness.  He  went  to  the 


210  THE  PLUMBER 

foreman,  and  said,  "  If  I  mayn't  sing  hymns,  these 
chaps  mustn't  sing  beastliness;  you've  stopped 
me,  stop  them." 

He  carried  his  point,  and  the  others  left  him 
alone. 

The  last  tyranny  of  fellow-workmen  now  fell 
to  his  experience.  He  was  put  to  Coventry. 
No  one  spoke  to  him.  Among  all  those  men, 
his  former  mates  and  companions,  he  worked 
in  silence  and  in  isolation,  his  presence,  his  ex- 
istence ignored  by  everybody,  both  by  men  and 
boys. 

A  French  friend  of  mine  said  to  me  the  other 
day,  "  I  do  not  think  the  Salvation  Army  will 
ever  be  so  great  a  success  in  France  as  in  Eng- 
land; in  France  one  is  more  sensitive  to  ridicule, 
more  obedient  to  public  opinion."  This  remark 
made  me  think  of  the  Plumber.  Consider  his 
stubborn  courage,  his  masculine  endurance  under 
persecution.  He  was  one  against  many,  in  an 
employment  which  necessitated  the  closest  com- 
panionship; and  the  opposing  majority  were  men 
with  whom  he  had  thieved,  drunk,  blasphemed, 
and  jested  for  many  years.  It  must  not  be  sup- 
posed either  that  he  was  so  carried  away  by  reli- 
gious exaltation  as  to  make  tyranny  a  small  matter 
to  him,  or  that  his  nature  was  too  coarse  and 
his  sensitiveness  too  blunt  for  suffering.  He  was 
a  London  workman  making  a  fight  for  his  soul. 
The  first  uprush  of  spiritual  freedom  which  had 


THE  PLUMBER 

swept  him  out  of  all  his  old  habits  had  now  de- 
parted. He  was  left  to  fight  his  battle  with 
normal  powers.  He  was  an  ordinary  man  fight- 
ing for  decency,  respectability  and  holiness,  in 
the  midst  of  men  who  knew  every  letter  in  his 
iniquitous  and  depraved  past.  He  felt  their 
cruelty  sharply.  A  companionable  man,  fond  of 
comic  songs  and  hilarious  bar  frolic — he  felt 
keenly  this  loneliness,  isolation,  and  neglect. 

For  a  day  or  two  he  endured  the  cruelty  of 
Coventry.  Then  came  the  end  of  the  week.  He 
received  the  remainder  of  his  wages  in  a  public- 
house,  and  was  told  that  the  job  was  postponed 
for  a  week  or  two,  and  that  no  one  would  be 
required  on  the  following  Monday. 

He  went  home. 

It  seemed  to  him  a  hard  thing,  just  when  he  had 
made  this  fresh  start  and  the  desolate  room  was 
beginning  to  put  on  the  appearance  of  a  home, 
that  the  means  of  daily  bread  should  be  taken 
from  him.  The  workman  who  is  told  on  Sat- 
urday that  he  will  not  be  required  on  Monday 
loses  the  feeling  that  Sunday  is  a  day  of  rest; 
he  carries  home  with  him  a  load  heavier  than 
sheet  lead. 

The  Plumber  did  not  say  anything  to  his  wife 
about  this  end  of  the  job.  He  read  a  little  cheap 
New  Testament  which  he  had  bought,  and  experi- 
enced a  sense  of  comfort  from  the  words,  "  I  am 
the  Vine,  and  ye  are  the  branches."  He  thought 


212  THE  PLUMBER 

that  if  he  trusted  to  Christ  all  would  go  well  with 
him.  The  family  spent  a  happy  Sunday.  There 
was  food  in  the  house,  the  father  was  sober; 
there  was  money  enough  to  last  with  care  till  the 
next  "  rhubarb." 

On  the  Monday  morning  he  woke  early,  and 
went  out  as  if  to  go  to  his  regular  work.  When 
he  found  himself  in  the  street  something  urged 
him,  before  looking  for  a  job,  to  go  to  the  scene 
of  his  last  employment,  the  place  at  which  work 
had  so  suddenly  terminated  on  the  Saturday.  He 
was  prepared  for  what  he  found  there.  The 
usual  operations  were  going  on,  all  his  mates 
were  at  work;  the  sound  of  their  toil  filled  the 
morning  air. 

He  stood  looking  at  the  busy  scene  for  a  few 
moments,  listening  to  the  familiar  sounds,  watch- 
ing the  well-known  figures,  and  feeling  in  his 
heart  a  certain  bitterness  which  almost  stirred 
him  to  the  violence  of  anger.  He  walked  away, 
feeling  that  the  hand  of  every  man  was  against 
him. 

Here  at  the  very  outset  of  a  new  life  was  the 
world's  oppugnance.  His  world  would  receive 
him  if  he  came  drunk  and  disreputable;  while  he 
remained  religious  and  upright  it  closed  its  gates 
against  him.  The  hatred  of  religion  has  many 
forms ;  none  is  so  cruel  as  that  which  takes  away 
the  daily  bread  of  the  workman  trying  to  be  a 
better  man. 


THE  PLUMBER  213 

Now  began  for  the  Plumber  a  martyrdom 
which  searched  his  soul.  Wherever  he  went  he 
found  that  the  story  of  his  life  had  preceded  him. 
There  are,  apparently,  few  trades  in  London  more 
closely  knit  and  with  ramifications  more  far- 
reaching  and  swift  than  this  trade  of  plumbing. 
A  story  concerning  the  trade  flies  to  all  corners 
of  the  metropolis;  a  man  who  gives  offence  be- 
comes instantly  known  to  mates  whom  he  has 
never  seen  and  whose  names  he  has  never  heard. 
The  poor  Plumber  discovered,  wherever  he  went, 
that  no  one  had  work  for  him. 

Very  often  he  felt  as  if  his  heart  would  break, 
but  never  once  did  the  temptation  either  to  drink 
or  to  smoke  visit  his  mind.  Hungry,  he  felt  no 
longing  for  the  lulling  stupefaction  of  tobacco; 
dejected  and  in  despair,  he  felt  no  craving  for  the 
oblivionizing  magic  of  alcohol.  But  a  deepening 
melancholy  settled  on  his  mind,  and  again  and 
again  he  had  to  remind  himself  of  the  words, 
"  I  am  the  Vine,  ye  are  the  branches,"  to  keep 
alive  in  his  heart  the  faith  that  God  cared. 

I  want  to  make  this  picture  clear  and  vivid  in 
the  reader's  mind.  Many  times  the  out-of-work 
Plumber  rose  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
with  nothing  to  sustain  his  physical  energy  ex- 
cept a  glass  of  water,  started  out  to  tramp  all 
day  in  quest  of  work.  These  tramps  carried  him 
sometimes  as  far  as  Harrow  and  Watford,  well 
outside  the  boundaries  of  London;  and  he  went 


THE  PLUMBER 

steadily  forward  all  the  long  day,  with  no  other 
support  than  his  glass  of  cold  water  and  his  re- 
ligion. Sometimes,  weary  and  heartsick,  glanc- 
ing forward  and  behind  to  see  that  he  was  not 
observed,  this  poor  fellow  would  sink  on  his 
knees  in  the  middle  of  a  country  road,  and  make 
his  prayer,  "  O  God,  don't  forsake  me ! "  And 
when  his  feet  dragged  and  his  body  seemed 
about  to  collapse,  he  would  lie  down  in  a  ditch, 
take  his  Testament  from  his  pocket,  and  read 
some  of  those  parables  which  declare  that  God 
does  care,  and  cares  greatly,  for  man  and  his 
sorrows.  What  a  picture  this  presents  to  the 
mind!  The  professional  tramp  has  put  us  out 
of  sympathy  with  the  respectable  workman  gen- 
uinely seeking  employment;  but  consider  this  man, 
converted  from  depravity  to  self-respect,  this  poor 
London  workman  trying  to  be  a  good  man,  kneel- 
ing in  the  dust  of  a  country  road,  and  reading 
the  Galilaean  parables  in  a  Buckinghamshire  ditch. 
The  home  was  only  kept  together  during  these 
difficult  months  by  the  incessant  labour  of  the 
wife.  Starvation  was  always  at  the  door.  The 
man  himself  certainly  lived  in  a  state  of  starva- 
tion. And  yet — how  can  science  explain  the 
matter? — in  spite  of  mental  misery  and  the  terri- 
ble state  of  a  body  reduced  to  extreme  weakness 
by  starvation,  not  once  did  this  ex-dipsomaniac 
feel  any  desire  whatever  either  for  tobacco  or 
alcohol. 


THE  PLUMBER  215 

If  ever  a  man  was  tempted  to  drink,  if  ever  a 
man  had  justification  for  drinking,  surely  it  was 
this  poor  hungry  animal,  tramping  the  roads  and 
streets,  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  month 
after  month,  and  always  in  vain,  seeking  for 
work. 

He  tells  me  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  con- 
scious of  religious  exaltation.  He  derived  com- 
fort from  singing  hymns  as  he  trudged  along  the 
road,  and  he  was  always  aware  of  support  when 
he  repeated  the  words,  "  I  am  the  Vine,  and  ye 
are  the  branches,"  but  never  did  his  heart  sing 
with  a  great  joy,  never  did  he  feel  inclined  to 
laugh  at  his  troubles;  never  did  ecstasy  take  him 
out  of  himself  and  make  terrestrial  life  appear  a 
small  matter.  Always  he  was  a  hungry  man 
asking  for  work.  He  was  now  so  devoted  to  the 
children,  who  had  once  feared  him,  that  he  could 
not  prevent  occasional  bitterness  at  the  reflection 
of  his  present  lot;  he  wanted,  God  knew  how  he 
wanted,  to  make  his  home  happy  and  bright; 
he  would  work  hard  from  morning  to  night,  he 
would  save  money,  and  never  again  waste  a  penny 
in  drink,  tobacco,  gambling,  and  other  vices;  but 
— there  was  no  work  for  him.  Alas,  such  is 
the  fate  of  thousands  of  good  men  and  capable 
tradesmen  in  modern  civilization. 

At  last  he  saw  that  he  must  abandon  his  trade 
and  its  high  wages. 

He  might  have  gone  to  the  "  Starvation  Army  " 


216  THE  PLUMBER 

and  got  work,  but  something  prevented  him  from 
bringing  himself  to  live  in  this  manner.  Thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  men  working  for  the 
Army  never  have  received  a  penny  from  its 
funds;  they  will  not  let  their  mates  say  that  they 
turned  religious  in  order  to  get  work;  they  are 
very  loyal  to  the  honour  of  the  religion  which 
has  saved  them. 

This  tradesman,  used  to  high  wages  and  inter- 
esting work,  hired  himself  out  at  last  as  what  is 
called  a  common  labourer.  He  ceased  to  be  a 
plumber.  It  was  a  hard  step,  but  once  taken  he 
was  glad.  By  hard  work,  careful  economy,  and 
enthusiasm  for  the  home,  he  now  lives  a  happy 
and  contented  life  free  of  all  regret,  and  only 
occasionally  darkened  by  the  anxiety  of  penury. 
He  says,  speaking  of  his  home,  "  Pictures  hang 
on  the  walls — they  used  to  hang  on  the  wife's 
face."  Every  day  his  eldest  little  girl  goes  to 
meet  him  at  his  work,  and  walks  home  with  him; 
she  was  one  of  those  who  rushed  under  the  bed 
for  cover  at  the  first  sound  of  his  step  on  the 
stair.  He  is  a  labourer,  a  sweeper  of  the  London 
streets,  and  he  is  happy.  The  man's  face  is  a 
Te  Deum.  His  gratitude  to  God,  his  enthusiasm 
for  conversion,  his  certain  conviction  that  it  is 
only  religion  which  can  reform  the  individual 
and  the  State,  make  him  a  tremendous  worker 
among  the  lost  and  unhappy. 

And  it  was  this  man — here,  I  think,  is  the 


THE  PLUMBER  317 

romance  of  religion  as  a  force  in  the  strange  lives 
of  a  shabby  London  quarter — who,  coming  happy 
from  his  home  for  a  meeting  in  the  Salvation 
Army  hall — by  a  chance  word  to  the  Puncher, 
fresh  from  prison,  turned  that  remarkable  man 
from  murder  to  a  life  of  devotion  and  service. 
What  other  force  can  society  devise  which  will 
take  such  a  man  as  this  Plumber,  bred  in  drunk- 
enness and  crime,  and  convert  him  from  a  thief, 
a  dipsomaniac,  and  a  domestic  tyrant,  into  an 
upright,  honourable,  and  pure-minded  citizen? 
Conversion  is  quite  properly  a  subject  for  psycho- 
logical examination,  but  modern  theology  misses 
its  chief  weapon  against  the  attacks  of  material- 
ism when  it  fails  to  insist  upon  the  immense 
significance  of  these  spiritual  miracles.  What- 
ever conversion  may  be,  whatever  its  physical 
machinery,  it  is  religion  and  only  religion  which 
can  put  the  machinery  in  motion,  and  make  a  bad 
man  a  good  man,  a  profitless  and  dangerous  citi- 
zen a  useful  member  of  society.  Surely  this  story 
of  the  Plumber,  even  as  it  is  narrated  here  in  a 
few  pages  of  print,  must  bring  home  to  the  minds 
of  politicians  and  sociologists  really  acquainted 
with  the  appalling  condition  of  modern  London, 
that  here  in  religion  is  the  one  great  hope  of 
regeneration,  the  one  certain  guarantee,  as  the 
whole  of  Tolstoy's  work  teaches,  of  a  noble 
posterity.  There  is  really  nothing  else. 


IN  some  ways  the  man  in  this  story  is  the  most 
original  and  striking  of  the  group  with  whom 
I  discussed  religious  experience  in  poor  Lon- 
don.    Certainly  the  manner  of  his  conversion  is 
quite  different  from  the  usual  narratives  recorded 
in  books.     I   can  find  nothing  like  it  in   The 
Varieties  of  Religious  Experience. 

Let  me  begin  by  attempting  to  paint  his  por- 
trait. He  is  very  like  the  popular  idea  of  a 
burglar:  his  nose  is  brief,  and  flat  to  the  face, 
somewhat  broken;  he  has  a  long  upper  lip;  his 
mouth  is  twisted  into  a  snarl;  his  light-coloured, 
bird-like  eyes  glare  fiercely  at  you  under  a  heavy 
and  overhanging  forehead;  the  colour  of  the  old 
face,  which  is  ploughed  with  deep  wrinkles  and 
marked  by  bitter  suffering,  is  like  dirty  linen — 
that  peculiar  prison-tinge,  half  grey,  half  brown, 
which  suggests  stubborn  powers  of  resistance  and 
the  habit  of  silent  thought.  He  is  vigorous  and 
powerful,  with  jerky  movements  and  passionate 
gestures.  His  voice  has  the  fog  of  London  in  its 
growl.  When  he  laughs  his  eyes  remain  hard, 
and  his  mouth  is  like  a  cat's  when  it  draws  back 
its  lips.  He  is  impatient  of  subtle  questions, 
218 


RAGS  AND  BONES  219 

strikes  the  table  often  with  a  clenched  fist,  occa- 
sionally yields  to  a  kind  of  ecstasy  in  the  midst 
of  eating  bread  and  butter — throwing  back  his 
head  and  shouting  "  Glory  to  God !  "  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  ceiling,  his  face  wrinkled  up  and 
contorted  as  though  he  was  suffering  physical 
torture. 

He  has  suffered;  he  tells  you  that  he  knows. 
He  is  rugged,  irregular,  real. 

One  does  not  quite  know  what  to  make  of 
this  rough  old  son  of  the  slums,  except  to  say 
that  he  has  suffered  frightfully,  that  he  has  been 
delivered  from  hopeless  despair  in  a  miraculous 
manner,  and  that  he  is  now  as  firmly  fixed  in 
righteousness  as  any  saint  of  mysticism.  As  to 
the  mystery  of  his  consciousness,  as  to  his  ideas 
of  God  and  the  nature  of  existence  waiting  hu- 
manity beyond  the  grave,  one  can  conjecture 
nothing. 

He  began  life  in  misery.  He  was  the  child  of 
parents  who  spent  all  their  money  in  drink.  His 
infancy  was  spent  in  his  mother's  arms  in  the 
"  Queen's  Arms  "  or  the  "Royal  Arms,"  a  double 
embrace  which  afforded  his  young  soul  little 
acquaintance  either  with  maternal  affection  or 
royal  favour.  His  early  childhood  was  also  spent 
chiefly  in  public-houses,  where  he  stood  at  his 
mother's  knee  half  suffocated  in  a  dark  and  mov- 
ing world  of  trousers,  petticoats,  and  spilt  liquor. 
By  the  time  he  was  tall  enough  to  see  the  counter 


220  RAGS  AND  BONES 

he  was  old  enough  to  fend  for  himself  in  the 
streets;  he  preferred  them  to  the  tavern.  He  had 
long  been  used  to  going  home  with  his  mother 
after  midnight,  and  now  he  very  often  waited 
for  her  outside  the  public-house  door  until  he  was 
so  tired  that  he  crawled  away  to  sleep  in  a  yard 
or  a  doorway.  The  streets  had  no  terrors  for 
him. 

This  life  of  neglect,  misery,  and  destitution, 
by  some  miracle,  did  not  depress  Teddy.  He 
grew  up,  in  spite  of  it,  sharp,  active,  acute,  and 
humorous.  He  was  sharp  enough  to  provide 
himself  with  food,  to  avoid  thrashings  from  his 
father,  and  to  find  comfortable  dosses  in  back- 
yards. Later,  he  was  acute  enough  to  see  that 
the  ranks  of  an  infantry  regiment  was  the  best 
place  for  a  hungry,  growing  boy.  He  enlisted 
and  soldiered  without  distinction,  but  without 
great  crime,  till  his  time  was  up.  Throughout 
his  soldiering  he  was  a  cockney  humorist. 

Drink  was  getting  hold  of  him;  but  he  was 
strong,  and  could  carry  a  "  skinful."  He  came 
out  of  the  army  a  hard  drinker,  but  not  a  drunk- 
ard. He  had  his  wits  about  him. 

He  became  a  marine-store  dealer,  that  is  to 
say,  a  rag-and-bone  merchant  in  a  very  small 
way  of  business.  His  liveliness,  his  fondness  for 
drink,  and  his  endless  stories  of  sharp  practice 
and  cunning,  made  him  popular  and  brought  him 
business.  But  as  fast  as  money  came  in — not 


RAGS  AND  BONES 

very  fast,  perhaps — he  drank  it  away.  Then  he 
married  a  good  woman,  and  his  wife  exercised 
a  certain  restraint  over  him.  Things  began  to 
go  better.  He  was  really  deeply  attached  to  his 
wife,  and  for  her  sake  he  made  a  manful  fight 
to  keep  out  of  the  public-houses;  there  were  whole 
weeks  when  he  did  not  drink  a  glass  of  beer  or 
waste  a  penny  in  the  taverns.  His  home  was 
really  a  very  happy  one,  as  happiness  goes  in 
shabby  London. 

But  terrible  disaster  overtook  him.  His  wife 
died.  He  was  left  quite  alone  in  the  world.  It 
was  the  death  of  his  wife  which  made  him  an 
habitual  drunkard.  Before  that  he  had  no  over- 
mastering craving.  Strong-willed  and  tenacious, 
he  had  power  over  his  appetite,  could  control  it, 
and  make  it  obedient.  But  the  death  of  his  wife 
broke  him  down,  and  drove  him  to  alcohol  for 
consolation.  One  must  try  to  understand  alco- 
hol's fatal  attraction  for  the  poor. 

"  The  sway  of  alcohol  over  mankind,"  says 
Professor  James,  "  is  unquestionably  due  to  its 
power  to  stimulate  the  mystical  faculties  of  hu- 
man nature,  usually  crushed  to  earth  by  the  cold 
facts  and  dry  criticisms  of  the  sober  hour.  So- 
briety diminishes,  discriminates,  and  says  no; 
drunkenness  expands,  unites,  and  says  yes.  It  is, 
in  fact,  the  great  exciter  of  the  Yes  function  in 
man.  It  brings  its  votary  from  the  chill  periph- 
ery of  things  to  the  radiant  core.  It  makes  him 


222  RAGS  AND  BONES 

for  the  moment  one  with  truth.  Not  through 
mere  perversity  do  men  run  after  it.  To  the  poor 
and  the  unlettered  it  stands  in  the  place  of  sym- 
phony concerts  and  of  literature;  and  it  is  part 
of  the  deeper  mystery  and  tragedy  of  life  that 
whiffs  and  gleams  of  something  that  we  imme- 
diately recognize  as  excellent  should  be  vouch- 
safed to  so  many  of  us  only  in  the  fleeting  earlier 
phases  of  what  in  its  totality  is  so  degrading  and 
poisoning.  The  drunken  consciousness  is  one  bit 
of  the  mystic  consciousness,  and  our  total  opinion 
of  it  must  find  its  place  in  our  opinion  of  that 
larger  whole. 

"  Nitrous  oxide  and  ether,  especially  nitrous 
oxide,  when  sufficiently  diluted  with  air,  stimulate 
the  mystical  consciousness  in  an  extraordinary 
degree.  Depth  beyond  depth  of  truth  seems  re- 
vealed to  the  inhaler.  This  truth  fades  out,  how- 
ever, or  escapes,  at  the  moment  of  coming  to; 
and  if  any  words  remain  over  in  which  it  seemed 
to  clothe  itself,  they  prove  to  be  the  veriest  non- 
sense. Nevertheless,  the  sense  of  a  profound 
meaning  having  been  there  persists;  and  I  know 
more  than  one  person  who  is  persuaded  that  in 
the  nitrous  oxide  trance  we  have  a  genuine  meta- 
physical revelation.  Some  years  ago  I  myself 
made  some  observations  on  this  aspect  of  nitrous 
oxide  intoxication,  and  reported  them  in  print. 
One  conclusion  was  forced  upon  my  mind  at  that 
time,  and  my  impression  of  its  truth  has  ever 


RAGS  AND  BONES  223 

since  remained  unshaken.  It  is  that  our  normal 
waking  consciousness,  rational  consciousness,  as 
we  call  it,  is  but  one  special  type  of  consciousness, 
whilst  all  about  it,  parted  from  it  by  the  filmiest 
of  screens,  there  lie  potential  forms  of  conscious- 
ness entirely  different.  We  may  go  through  life 
without  suspecting  their  existence,  but  apply  the 
requisite  stimulus,  and  at  a  touch  they  are  there 
in  all  their  completeness,  definite  types  of  men- 
tality which  probably  somewhere  have  their  field 
of  application  and  adaptation.  No  account  of  the 
universe  in  its  totality  can  be  final  which  leaves 
these  other  forms  of  consciousness  quite  disre- 
garded." 

This  is  so  true  that  one  surely  need  not  em- 
phasize it;  but,  unfortunately,  too  many  who 
strive  to  cure  people  of  alcoholism  will  not  recog- 
nize that  they  are  endeavouring  to  take  away  a 
man's  escape  from  misery,  his  one  means  of 
flight  into  the  rapturous  air  of  illusion;  they  per- 
sist in  treating  drunkenness  as  a  form  of  greedi- 
ness quite  similar  to  a  schoolboy's  stomach-ache 
from  overbunning;  in  this  way  they  fail  in  their 
good  intentions. 

The  psychological  aspect  of  alcoholism  is  one 
that  opens  the  door  to  much  mystery,  and  reveals 
to  those  who  look  long  enough  and  deep  enough 
puzzling  glimpses  of  the  human  soul. 

This  rough  man,  an  ex-soldier  and  now  a  rag- 
and-bone  merchant,  finding  himself  bowed  down 


RAGS  AND  BONES 

by  the  death  of  a  woman  he  had  loved  sincerely 
and  nobly,  went  to  drink  for  oblivion,  stood  in 
a  public-house  to  forget  the  grave,  laughed  with 
the  drinkers  to  forget  his  desolate  home,  drank 
and  drank  to  stop  the  bleeding  of  his  heart.  And 
he  discovered  happiness.  The  filmy  screens  sur- 
rounding his  normal  consciousness  lifted  with  the 
potent  fumes,  and  he  inhabited  fields  of  conscious- 
ness wide,  glorious,  and  delightful.  It  is  im- 
portant to  know  that  he  became  a  happy  drunk- 
ard. Some  men  find  in  alcohol  a  deadening  and 
soporific  narcotic;  they  grow  sullen,  silent,  quar- 
relsome in  a  grumbling,  growling  way;  others, 
and  of  this  company  was  our  poor  widower, 
discover  in  alcohol  a  Jinni,  or,  if  you  like,  an 
I  frit,  who  lifts  them  up  to  the  seventh  heaven, 
transports  them  over  stellar  spaces,  builds  for 
them  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  palaces  of  por- 
phyry and  jasper,  fills  their  hands  with  gold,  and 
breathes  into  their  souls  the  sense  and  the  con- 
viction of  absolute  power.  From  deep  melan- 
choly this  man  rose  to  dazzling  heights  of  hap- 
piness. Alcohol,  like  the  magic  carpet,  lifted 
him  into  mid-air;  like  the  ivory-tube,  revealed 
to  him  all  he  desired  to  see;  like  the  enchanted 
apple,  healed  him  of  all  sickness. 

Because  he  was  so  intensely  happy,  he  became 
immensely  popular.  The  wretched  Miserables 
who  congregated  in  his  public-houses  for  happi- 
ness and  oblivion,  welcomed  his  company,  laughed 


RAGS  AND  BONES  225 

at  his  jests,  applauded  his  songs,  loved  him  in 
their  drunken  sodden  joy  for  the  wonderful  con- 
tagion of  his  joviality. 

For  a  long  time,  for  years,  this  state  of  things 
continued. 

Then  his  business  dwindled  and  failed.  He 
was  in  trouble  for  his  rent.  Sharper  men  served 
his  customers.  He  went  laughing  and  singing 
to  his  ruin,  caring  not  a  jot  what  became  of  him. 
So  long  as  he  had  the  magic  of  alcohol,  what 
mattered  rags  and  bones? 

He  took  to  sleeping  in  yards,  in  dustbins,  in 
any  dog-hole  or  cellar  that  he  could  stumble  into 
unobserved  by  midnight  police. 

He  got  his  living — that  is  to  say,  money  for 
drink — by  a  hundred  clever  dodges.  Although 
this  man  has  a  face  which  reminds  one  of  Flax- 
man's  fiends,  throughout  his  life  he  has  been  in- 
offensive, always  he  has  enjoyed  popularity. 
"  No  one  can  help  liking  old  Teddy  "  is  a  phrase 
in  the  district.  The  man  is  reckoned  clever.  He 
would  take  the  laces  out  of  his  boots,  go  into 
public-houses  where  he  was  not  known,  and  offer 
them  for  sale.  He  made  money  in  this  fashion, 
and  could  sleep  with  the  laces  in  his  pocket, 
ready  for  the  next  day's  traffic.  His  eyes  were 
keen  to  notice  vendible  things  in  backyards  and 
in  gutters.  He  cadged  his  way  through  life, 
without  committing  crimes.  In  a  moment  of 
destitution  he  got  hold  of  a  sheet  of  newspaper, 


226  RAGS  AND  BONES 

tore  it  into  strips,  and  sold  them  at  a  penny  each 
as  "bringers  of  luck."  He  was  too  good-tem- 
pered to  be  a  criminal. 

But  he  found  it  harder  and  ever  harder  to  pick 
up  sufficient  money  to  satisfy  his  increasing  crav- 
ing for  drink.  He  sank  deeper  into  the  gutter, 
his  joviality  began  to  leave  him,  his  old  com- 
panions showed  less  disposition  to  pay  for  his 
drink,  less  disposition  to  listen  to  his  jests.  For 
one  thing,  his  clothes  were  now  the  foul  rags  of 
a  tramp.  Alcohol  is  an  Ifrit  that  has  the  habit 
of  leaving  its  victims  at  an  awkward  moment. 
The  magic  worlds  fade  away.  The  palaces  dis- 
solve and  melt.  Consciousness  narrows  to  a  pint 
pot. 

Once  at  this  point  in  his  career  he  had  what  is 
called  "  a  turn."  After  having  slept  in  various 
areas  and  certain  conveniences  attached  to  public- 
houses  for  a  long  period,  he  discovered  an  old 
muddy,  broken-down  cart  in  a  yard,  which  was 
never  disturbed  by  its  owner,  and  which  offered 
shelter  from  wind  and  rain.  Here  he  established 
himself,  and  this  old  cart  became  his  home. 
People  got  to  know  about  it.  They  laughed  at 
Teddy's  "  doss."  He  slunk  into  the  yard  at  one 
or  two  in  the  morning,  climbed  into  the  cart, 
lay  in  his  rags  on  the  floor,  and  slept  soundly 
till  the  dawn. 

Well,  one  cold  night  after  a  fairly  successful 
day,  he  found  himself  with  coppers  enough  for  a 


RAGS  AND  BONES  827 

"  fourpenny  kip  "—that  is  to  say,  a  bed  in  a  com- 
mon lodging-house.  Every  now  and  then  he  in- 
dulged himself  in  this  luxury,  especially  on  occa- 
sions when  whisky  had  excited  his  feelings,  and 
his  soul  became  princely.  On  this  particular 
night  he  walked  proudly  towards  his  lodging- 
house,  thinking  of  the  kitchen  fire  in  the  base- 
ment, and  anticipating  joy  from  a  dirty  sheet,  a 
foul  blanket,  and  a  palliasse  such  as  you  would 
not  give  to  your  dog. 

On  his  way  he  met  an  old  tramp,  a  poor  broken 
wretch  known  in  the  neighbourhood  as  Old 
Bumps.  This  man  whined  about  the  bitter  cold, 
said  he  felt  bad,  wished  to  God  he  had  some  place 
where  he  could  sleep.  Teddy  told  him  of  the 
cart,  and  gave  him  permission  to  use  it  for  that 
night  only. 

After  glorious  repose  in  the  lodging-house, 
Teddy  rose  and  came  out  into  the  world  with  re- 
newed hope.  As  he  walked  someone  met  him, 
started,  turned  quite  grey,  and  stood.  "  What's 
the  matter?  "  asked  Teddy.  "  Why !  "  cried  the 
man,  with  an  oath,  "  you're  dead !  "  "  Dead ! 
what  do  you  mean  ?  "  "  D'you  mean  to  tell  me 
you're  alive?"  Teddy  demanded  explanations. 
"  Everybody  in  the  place  is  saying  you're  dead," 
replied  the  man;  "  hundreds  say  they  have  seen 
your  corpse.  You  died  last  night  in  the  cart. 
I  saw  them  wheeling  your  body  away." 

Old  Bumps  had  died  in  his  sleep.     Someone 


228  RAGS  AND  BONES 

had  seen  the  body  lying  there.  A  policeman  had 
been  told.  The  crowd  saw  a  corpse  taken  out  of 
the  cart  and  wheeled  away  in  an  ambulance  to 
the  mortuary.  The  whole  world  said,  "  Teddy  is 
dead." 

The  thought  that  he  had  been  considered  dead 
had  an  explosive  effect  in  Teddy's  mind.  It  was 
a  catherine-wheel  of  alarm,  scattering  sparks  and 
confusion.  It  pulled  him  up.  It  made  him  re- 
flect on  death.  He  considered  within  himself 
that  the  hour  surely  cometh,  and  for  him  might 
come  suddenly  and  soon,  when  a  man's  soul  passes 
out  of  the  body,  and  must  give  account  of  the 
deeds  done  in  the  body.  He  saw  how  very  easily 
the  corpse  of  Old  Bumps  might  have  been  his 
corpse.  He  might  die  one  night  in  his  sleep. 
He  might  be  taken  out  of  that  cart,  cold,  stiff, 
motionless.  People  would  say,  "  Teddy  is  dead 
— dead  like  a  dog! "  But  what  of  his  soul? 

"  *  Love  would  not  be  love,'  says  Bourget, 
*  unless  it  could  carry  one  to  crime.'  And  so  one 
may  say  that  no  passion  would  be  a  veritable 
passion  unless  it  could  carry  one  to  crime." 
(Sighele,  Psychologie  des  Sectes,  p.  136.) 

On  this  Professor  James  comments,  "  In  other 
words,  great  passions  annul  the  ordinary  inhibi- 
tions set  by  '  conscience.'  And  conversely,  of  all 
the  criminal  human  beings,  the  false,  cowardly, 
sensual,  or  cruel  persons  who  actually  live,  there 
is  perhaps  not  one  whose  criminal  impulse  may 


RAGS  AND  BONES  229 

not  be  at  some  moment  overpowered  by  the  pres- 
ence of  some  other  emotion  to  which  his  character 
is  also  potentially  liable,  provided  that  other  emo- 
tion be  only  made  intense  enough.  Fear  is  usu- 
ally the  most  available  emotion  for  this  result  in 
this  particular  class  of  persons.  It  stands  for 
conscience,  and  may  here  be  classed  appropriately 
as  a  '  higher  affection.'  If  we  are  soon  to  die, 
or  if  we  believe  a  day  of  judgment  to  be  near 
at  hand,  how  quickly  do  we  put  our  moral  house 
in  order — we  do  not  see  "how  sin  can  evermore 
exert  temptation  over  us!  Old-fashioned  hell- 
fire  Christianity  well  knew  how  to  extract  from 
fear  its  full  equivalent  in  the  way  of  fruits  for 
repentance,  and  its  full  conversion  value." 

The  most  available  emotion — fear — began  to 
work  in  the  mind  of  this  London  Miserable.  He 
thought,  What  can  I  do?  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  must  first  of  all  escape  from  the  present  life. 
He  could  never  more  sleep  in  that  cart.  He  must 
avoid  his  old  haunts.  Best  of  all,  he  must  leave 
London  behind  him.  Somewhere  he  must  find 
work.  Somehow  he  must  begin  again. 

So  the  frightened  drunkard,  born  and  bred  in 
the  gutters  of  the  slums,  took  to  the  road  in 
middle  age,  and  tramped  out  of  London  to  save 
his  soul. 

I  have  never  seen  man's  face  express  more 
suffering  than  the  battered,  weather-beaten  face 
of  this  rag-and-bone  merchant  when  he  described 


230  RAGS  AND  BONES 

to  me  the  horrors  of  a  tramp's  life.  To  tramp 
till  the  legs  are  like  boards,  the  feet  like  burning 
coals,  the  empty  stomach  ravenous  and  tigerish 
for  food,  and  everywhere  to  find  the  doors  of 
homes  shut  against  one,  to  receive  only  fierce 
or  mocking  looks  from  men,  frightened  or  con- 
temptuous glances  from  women  and  children; 
to  walk  on  and  on  under  a  burning  sky,  through 
a  downpour  of  rushing  rain,  in  snow  and  hail, 
in  drenching  mist  and  blood-congealing  cold — 
always  regarded  with  suspicion,  barked  at  by  the 
dogs  in  farmyards  and  stables,  followed  threat- 
eningly by  the  village  policeman,  refused  not  only 
one  helpful  word  or  one  kindly  gift,  but  refused 
work  of  any  kind,  the  hardest  and  most  menial — 
this  is  an  experience  which  hardens  a  man's  heart, 
turns  the  blood  to  vinegar,  and  makes  him  the 
savage  enemy  of  his  own  kind. 

Nor  was  it  much  better  when  he  reached  the 
shelter  of  a  workhouse.  No  effort  was  made  to 
save  his  soul,  to  humanize  his  heart  with  kindness. 
No  one  ever  sought  to  reclaim  him,  to  provide 
him  with  manly  work,  to  hold  out  the  hope  of 
wages,  home,  and  self-respect.  From  the  mo- 
ment when  the  door  of  the  workhouse  opened  he 
was  treated  as  a  criminal.  Hard  words  and 
hard  looks  accompanied  him  to  his  bed,  and  be- 
fore he  could  eat  a  workhouse  breakfast  he  had 
to  break — this  broken  tramp,  starving  for  nour- 
ishment— half  a  ton  of  stones.  Many  a  time 


RAGS  AND  BONES  231 

on  the  road  he  felt  deserted  by  man  and  God,  and 
driven  by  some  inexorable  devil  onwards  to 
greater  suffering  and  more  terrible  hell.  Again 
and  again  he  abandoned  hope,  lived  in  blackest 
despair,  and  only  refrained  from  self-destruction 
out  of  fear  of  hell.  And  all  the  time  he  was 
tortured  by  a  craving  for  alcohol,  which  was  like 
a  fire  burning  at  his  vitals. 

He  told  me  a  curious  story.  He  had  tramped 
one  day  across  Salisbury  Plain,  and  on  the  point 
of  collapse  from  starvation,  he  sank  down  in  a 
ditch,  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
weeping  like  a  child,  he  cried  aloud,  "  O  God,  give 
me  something  to  eat !  "  A  feeling  of  help  came 
to  him  in  the  midst  of  his  exhaustion  and  despair. 
He  took  his  hands  from  his  face  and  looked  to 
right  and  left  of  him;  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen. 
His  eyes  looked  ahead  of  him.  In  the  opposite 
hedge  he  saw  a  piece  of  paper.  He  got  up,  con- 
vinced that  there  was  the  help  he  sought.  The 
paper  turned  out  to  be  a  bag.  It  contained  two 
scones. 

A  curious  coincidence. 

He  tramped  back  to  London,  feeling  that  those 
who  knew  him  would  be  more  likely  to  help  him 
than  peasants  and  farmers  who  took  him  for  a 
criminal.  He  arrived  in  his  old  slum  such  a  piti- 
able object — "  lousy  as  a  cuckoo,"  in  the  local 
phrase — that  everybody  turned  their  backs  upon 
him.  Here  and  there  he  managed  to  cadge  a 


232  RAGS  AND  BONES 

drink.  Now  and  again  he  picked  something  up 
in  the  gutters  which  he  was  able  to  sell  for  beer. 
Occasionally  he  got  a  copper  for  holding  a  horse. 
Once  or  twice  he  held  the  spirited  cob  of  the 
Puncher,  while  that  flash  prize-fighter  was  drink- 
ing in  saloon  bars.  In  this  manner  he  existed  for 
months  and  months,  always  starving,  frequently 
half  drunk,  and  getting  every  day  more  dreadful 
a  creature  to  look  at,  so  that  even  many  in  like 
case  with  himself  gave  him  a  wide  berth. 

One  day,  when  he  was  quite  penniless,  the 
craving  for  alcohol  became  so  forceful  and  irre- 
sistible that  he  knew,  whatever  the  cost,  he  must 
obtain  it.  At  that  moment  he  was  on  the  edge  of 
crime.  Like  a  ravenous  beast  he  went  slouching 
at  a  half-run  through  the  streets,  looking  with 
his  ferocious  eyes  for  some  chance  of  getting 
money  and  drink.  As  luck  would  have  it,  he  saw 
the  landlord  of  a  public-house  in  which  he  had 
spent  hundreds  of  pounds  talking  to  a  man  at 
the  door.  Teddy,  in  his  vile  rags,  went  up  to 
him,  and  said,  "  Will  you  trust  me  with  a  pot 
till  to-morrow?" 

The  landlord  looked  at  him  with  contempt, 
and  answered,  "  Don't  you  see  I'm  talking  to  a 
gentleman?  " 

But  Teddy's  craving  was  proof  against  insult 
and  contempt. 

"  Trust  me  till  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
perishing  for  a  drink/' 


RAGS  AND  BONES  233 

The  landlord  made  no  answer. 

Again  Teddy  made  his  request.  This  time  he 
was  told  to  go  to  hell. 

"  Come  on,"  pleaded  the  poor  wretch,  "  give 
us  one  chance;  just  a  drink,  only  one;  I'll  go 
away  quiet,  if  you  will." 

"  Oh,  go  and  mess  the  Army  about !  "  said  the 
publican,  with  impatient  contempt. 

There  was  a  Salvation  Army  open-air  meeting 
in  the  next  street,  and  the  sound  of  the  band 
came  to  their  ears. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ? — you  won't  ?  "  demanded 
Teddy. 

"  Yes.  You  go  and  mess  the  Army  about," 
repeated  the  publican.  Now  it  must  be  told, 
what  perhaps  is  not  widely  known,  that  in  these 
destitute  quarters  of  London,  the  publicans  very 
often  support  the  Salvation  Army  with  subscrip- 
tions, and  frequently  encourage  them  to  get  hold 
of  the  worst  drunkards.  A  Salvationist  can  al- 
ways go  freely  into  the  public  bar  of  these  gin- 
palaces.  As  one  of  them  explained  to  me,  "A 
publican  doesn't  make  anything  out  of  a  four-ale 
man,  and  when  they  get  badly  and  habitually 
drunk,  he's  never  over  pleased  to  see  them,  for 
often  it  means  a  row  in  the  bar  and  trouble  with 
the  police.  What  the  publican  likes  is  the  toff, 
who  cracks  down  a  bob  for  three  or  four  pennorth 
of  whisky  and  a  tuppeny  smoke.  There's  profit 
there.  And  the  toff  drinks,  lights  his  cigar,  and 


234  RAGS  AND  BONES 

goes — making  room  for  others.  But  the  four- 
ale  man  spends  his  twopence,  and  sits  solid  for 
hours,  hoping  to  cadge  another  drink  from  some 
mate  who  never  appears.  Yes,  the  publicans 
support  us.  It  pays  them." 

So  it  will  be  seen  that  this  particular  publican 
really  meant  it  when  he  told  Teddy  to  go  and 
mess  the  Army  about.  He  had  no  desire,  per- 
haps, for  the  salvation  of  Teddy's  soul,  but  he  did 
not  want  him  for  a  customer,  which — from  the 
publican's  point  of  view — comes  to  the  same  thing. 

The  contempt  in  the  words  stung  Teddy.  He 
considered  how  much  wealth  he  had  poured  into 
that  public-house.  And  now,  when  he  was  mad 
for  just  one  drink,  just  because  he  was  penniless 
and  in  rags,  the  devil  he  had  enriched  ordered 
him,  like  a  dog,  to  get  out  of  his  way.  The  words 
"  go  and  mess  the  Army  about "  stuck  in  his 
mind.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  this 
thing  called  the  Salvation  Army  was  kind  even 
to  tramps  in  a  condition  as  vile  as  his.  It  was 
like  light  to  his  soul.  Denied  by  the  publican, 
this  sinner  thought  of  Christ.  There  on  the  slum 
pavement,  outside  a  tavern,  mad  for  drink,  and 
sunken  to  the  very  depths  of  misery,  all  of  a 
sudden  the  consciousness  of  the  outcast  received 
the  idea  of  Christ's  kindness  to  the  lost. 

As  I  said  at  the  beginning  of  the  story,  I  know 
nothing  like  it  in  the  chronicles  of  conversion. 
How  different  from  the  ecstatic  vision  of  the 


RAGS  AND  BONES  235 

mystic,  how  different  from  the  glowing  light  sud- 
denly suffusing  the  prayerful  soul  of  the  penitent, 
how  different  from  the  mysterious  voice  calling 
a  dejected  spirit  to  the  love  of  God!  And  yet 
how  natural,  how  real,  how  simple,  in  its  abnor- 
mality. Also,  how  true  to  the  slums ! 

"  Right,  guv'nor,"  said  Teddy,  and  he  said  it 
savagely,  not  at  all  in  the  tone  of  penitence,  "  I'll 
take  your  tip!  "  and  he  walked  away  in  his  filth 
and  his  rags. 

He  went  straight  to  the  open-air  meeting  in 
the  next  street.  The  band  was  getting  ready  for 
the  march  back  to  the  hall.  Teddy  approached 
the  drummer  and  said,  "  Can  I  come  along  with 
you?"  The  drummer  looked  at  him  and  said, 
"  Yes."  Teddy  marched  beside  that  man  to  the 
hall,  the  rattle  of  the  drum  and  the  blare  of  the 
trumpets  making  strange  music  in  his  soul.  At 
the  meeting  in  the  hall  he  broke  down,  covered 
with  remorse  for  his  past  life,  and  feeling  how 
greatly  he  had  rejected  the  mercy  of  God.  He 
went  to  the  penitent  form,  knelt  down,  and  prayed 
with  anguish  for  forgiveness,  and  also  for 
strength  to  make  a  fresh  start.  "  Oh,  God,  oh, 
God,"  he  kept  crying,  "  I  want  to  be  born  again!  " 

He  says  the  answer  came  with  the  cry.  Then 
and  there  he  felt  his  breast  broadened,  his  soul 
lightened,  and  the  blood  coursing  joyfully  through 
his  veins.  He  was  saved. 

Remember  that  ten  minutes  before  this  man 


236  RA6S  AND  BONES 

had  been  running  through  the  streets,  mad  for 
alcohol. 

The  Salvationists  showed  him  love  and  kind- 
ness. He  was  in  a  terrible  state,  one  of  the 
dirtiest  men  ever  handled  by  that  corps.  He  had 
no  socks  and  no  shirt.  Next  to  the  blackened 
flesh  of  his  feet  was  the  broken  leather  of  his 
foul  boots;  next  to  the  skin  and  bones  of  his 
legs,  trousers  that  were  rent  and  threadbare  and 
unspeakable;  next  to  the  poor  body,  something 
that  called  itself  a  coat  and  was  not.  This  man 
had  neither  socks,  nor  shirt,  nor  waistcoat;  the 
state  of  his  skin  must  not  be  described;  they  had 
to  get  an  old  sack  to  put  over  him.  It  was  the 
case  of  his  trade — rags  and  bones. 

To  such  a  condition  can  a  man  come  in  our 
modern  days.  To  such  a  condition  can  drink 
bring  him;  to  such  a  condition  the  State  allows 
him  to  come.  Religion  took  this  man  and  saved 
him  from  the  publican  and  the  State. 

Here,  you  may  be  tempted  to  think,  is  the  case 
of  a  man  merely  saved  by  being  provided  with 
work;  a  man  who  made  use  of  religion  to  obtain 
employment,  and  lived  his  repentance  more  or 
less  comfortably  on  the  wages  of  charity. 

Hear  the  end. 

He  left  the  hall,  after  his  conversion,  and  with- 
out saying  a  word  to  any  of  his  friends,  walked 
about  the  streets  for  two  nights.  As  a  rule  the 
Army  carefully  looks  after  its  penitents,  but  in 


RAGS  AND  BONES  237 

Teddy's  case  there  was  an  accident.  Everybody 
thought  that  somebody  else  was  nursing  him; 
in  fact,  no  one  did.  They  set  him  on  a  white 
horse  next  day,  and  led  him  in  triumph  through 
his  old  haunts,  through  the  foulest  quarters  of 
the  town,  exhibiting  Teddy  as  a  converted  sinner, 
and  making  a  vast  impression.  But  this  Man 
on  the  White  Horse  was  starving,  and  he  said 
nothing.  He  never  complained,  he  never  hinted 
for  bread  or  penny.  He  endured  the  agony  of 
starvation  in  a  noble  silence.  All  that  time  he 
was  praying  a  single  prayer,  "  Oh,  God !  give  me 
one  chance,  and  I'll  serve  You  all  the  days  of  my 
life."  He  was  determined  not  to  live  by  the 
Salvation  Army — like  almost  all  the  men  I  talked 
to,  he  glories  in  the  sneering  title  of  "  Starvation 
Army  " — he  was  determined  to  provide  for  him- 
self. "  I  didn't  go  to  the  Army  for  beer,  nor  yet 
for  charity,  nor  yet  for  work,"  he  cries  fiercely; 
"  that's  what  a  good  many  do  go  for,  and  they  go 
away  disappointed,  calling  it  Starvation  Army. 
Glory  to  that  title !  The  Army  isn't  for  mouchers 
and  work-shys,  and  willing-to-work-but-wonts. 
No;  it's  for  those  who  seek  Almighty  God, 
who  go  on  their  knees  to  Him,  and  who  get 
up  with  something  inside  them  that  won't 
ever  let  them  cadge  or  whine  or  play  the  loafer 
again.  And  that's  what  I  got.  Praise  God! 
He  lifted  me  up  from  a  cadging,  drunken  beast, 
and  gave  me  a  soul  to  praise  Him  and  love  Him 


238  RAGS  AND  BONES 

and  stand  firm.  Do  you  know  how  I  made  my 
start?  I'll  tell  you.  It  began  like  this.  Some- 
body gave  me  twopence.  It  was  my  first  capital. 
I  bought  for  that  sum  a  couple  of  little  flour 
bags.  I  picked  them  to  pieces,  sewed  them  up 
again  as  aprons,  and  sold  them  for  twopence  each. 
That  was  my  start — turning  twopence  into  four- 
pence.  With  that  fourpence  I  bought  more  flour 
bags.  With  every  penny  I  made  I  bought  some- 
thing else,  and  sold  again,  till  my  capital  was 
half  a  crown — all  made  in  one  long  day.  I  was 
now  a  man  of  business.  I  worked  like  this  for 
weeks,  till  I  was  fairly  floated;  then  I  slept  in 
a  Rowton  House  like  a  gentleman;  I  started 
a  rag-and-bone  round,  kept  myself  steady;  saved 
money,  took  a  house,  and  began  to  do  well. 
Never  a  farthing  did  I  take  from  the  Army." 

And  now  for  a  confession. 

Some  months  after  this  amazing  regeneration 
the  news  came,  "  Teddy's  broke  it !  " — which 
meant  Teddy  had  gone  back  to  drink.  This 
rumour  reached  the  ears  of  the  "  angel-adjutant  " 
— it  was  Teddy,  by  the  way,  who  gave  her  that 
name.  The  adjutant  was  returning  home  after 
an  exhaustive  day's  work,  and  she  had  a  meeting 
in  the  evening.  But  the  news  was  serious. 
"  Teddy's  broke  it !  " — it  meant  ruin  for  poor 
Teddy's  soul.  The  Man  had  fallen  from  the 
White  Horse.  She  jumped  upon  her  bicycle, 
went  to  her  officers,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 


RAGS  AND  BONES  239 

whole  corps  was  beating  the  district  for  this 
fallen  star,  this  lost  sheep,  this  poor  dog  returned 
to  its  vomit.  To  this  day  the  corps  sometimes 
speaks  of  the  great  bicycle  hunt  for  Teddy. 

They  found  him  at  last  in  a  public-house,  mad 
drunk.  They  got  him  back  to  his  nice  home, 
which  they  found  wrecked  and  broken  and  de- 
filed, and  put  him  to  bed. 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  found  that  some- 
one had  lit  a  fire  and  had  set  a  kettle  to  boil  for 
tea,  and  was  kneeling  in  the  little  chamber  pray- 
ing and  crying.  It  was  the  adjutant. 

The  loving  gentleness  broke  his  heart. 

How  did  he  fall?  He  himself  says  now  that 
he  is  all  the  better  for  that  fall,  that  before  it  he 
was  "  too  self-confident,"  not  meek  enough  to 
know  his  own  weakness,  and  not  sensible  enough 
to  realize  that  only  God  can  save  a  drunkard. 
But  there  was  a  very  human  disposing  cause. 
Consider  this  little  narrative  of  a  fragment  of 
London's  social  world :  Teddy  had  a  mother  who 
was  in  the  workhouse,  well  cared  for  and  pro- 
tected from  drink  by  wholesome  regulations. 
Every  Sunday  after  his  conversion  he  went  to  the 
workhouse,  brought  his  mother  home,  gave  her 
a  shilling  and  a  good  tea,  and  afterwards  took 
her  safely  back.  But  this  filial  affection  was  not 
good  enough  for  the  neighbours.  Tongues 
wagged.  "  Everybody  knew  what  he  should  have 
done ! "  says  one  of  his  friends  contemptuously. 


240  RAGS  AND  BONES 

Well,  these  gossiping  neighbours  used  to  talk 
to  Teddy's  mother,  get  her  alone  and  tell  her  she 
ought  to  make  him  remove  her  from  the  work- 
house and  let  her  live  like  a  lady.  They  worked 
upon  her  feelings,  till  she  grew  to  hate  her  son, 
till  she  felt  that  it  was  he  who  put  her  in  the 
House  and  kept  her  there.  Then  one  Sunday, 
during  his  absence  at  the  Salvation  Army  meeting, 
having  filled  the  old  woman  with  drink,  the 
neighbours  assisted  her  to  smash  up  the  home 
he  had  got  together  with  such  great  labour,  self- 
denial,  and  pardonable  pride;  they  smashed  up 
his  home — to  teach  him  filial  affection. 

The  blow  was  too  much  for  Teddy.  He  went 
out  from  the  ruin  of  his  house  savage  and  dis- 
heartened, and — broke  it. 

The  tender-heartedness  of  the  adjutant  brought 
him  once  more  to  the  penitent  form  and  to  Christ, 
where  this  rough,  big,  powerful,  burglar-looking 
man  sobbed  and  cried  like  a  child.  And  some- 
thing of  great  importance  came  of  this  fall. 
While  he  was  mad  drunk  in  the  public-house  a 
Salvation  lass  had  entered  and  commanded  the 
publican  not  to  serve  him  with  any  more  drink. 
Teddy  was  struck  by  that  woman,  and  considered 
her.  He  had  prayed  for  a  wife  for  his  home,  and 
now  that  it  was  ruined  he  felt  that  only  a  wife 
could  help  him  to  restore  it.  He  made  sure  of 
the  power  of  this  second  conversion,  and  then 
offered  himself  to  the  Salvationist. 


RAGS  AND  BONES  241 

She  liked  him — even  in  his  drunkenness,  as  we 
have  said,  everybody  liked  Teddy — and  when 
he  told  her  all  the  ache  and  longing  of  his  heart, 
she  got  after  a  time  to  love  him.  With  her  love 
to  assist  him  he  prospered  more  and  more  at  his 
business,  and  now,  with  a  child  in  his  home,  the 
delight  of  his  eyes,  he  has  one  of  the  best  rag- 
and-bone  rounds  in  aristocratic  London,  and  his 
happy  home,  his  prosperous  domesticity  set  an 
example  to  his  neighbours. 

One  day  he  came  to  the  adjutant  and  sub- 
scribed ten  shillings  to  the  funds  of  the  local 
corps.  She  did  not  like  to  take  it,  but  he  in- 
sisted. "  They  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  you  are  wor- 
ried for  the  gas-bill."  Then  he  said,  "  How  much 
is  it,  and  how  much  have  you  got  ?  "  "  With 
your  ten  shillings,  Teddy,"  she  answered,  "  I 
have  got  a  pound,  and  the  bill  is  for  fifty  shil- 
lings." "  Thirty  bob  short,"  he  said.  "  How  long 
have  you  got?"  "Till  to-morrow  morning." 

At  eight  o'clock  next  morning  Teddy  came  with 
the  thirty  shillings. 

What  a  revolution  in  personality!  Does  one 
exaggerate  to  call  it  a  new  birth? 


X 
APPARENT  FAILURE 

THIS  is  a  strange  love  story.  It  has  the  in- 
terest of  presenting  to  the  reader  a  poor 
man's  version  of  the  marriage  problem,  a 
theme  usually  restricted  by  fashionable  novelists 
to  the  lucky  classes.  Also,  it  has  the  particular 
interest  of  showing  religion  disappointed  of  a 
soul  and  yet  undefeated  in  its  tremendous  con- 
flict with  evil. 

When  I  was  gathering  the  materials  for  this 
book,  and  returning  every  now  and  then  for 
fresh  air  from  the  slums  to  happier  places  in 
society,  I  found  that  almost  everybody  to  whom 
I  spoke  of  my  investigations  said  in  the  modern 
tired  way,  "  But  do  these  conversions  last?  Are 
they  not  merely  disturbances  of  the  emotions,  and 
quite  transitory  in  their  effects? 

The  reader  who  has  followed  these  stories 
with  intelligence  and  with  knowledge  of  human 
nature  deeper  than  that  which  serves  the  average 
poor  man-of -the- world  in  his  journeys  round  the 
sun,  will  understand  how  I  must  have  felt,  listen- 
ing to  such  chilling  commentaries  on  stories  like 
the  Puncher's,  the  Criminal's,  and  the  Lowest 
of  the  Low.  It  was  not  until  I  heard  the  story 

242 


APPARENT  FAILURE  243 

which  now  follows,  the  story  which  I  have  pur- 
posely reserved  for  the  end  of  my  book,  and 
which  I  name  "  Apparent  Failure  "  with  a  good 
reason,  that  I  learned  how  best  to  silence  the 
lounging  critics  of  conversion — those  innumer- 
able people  too  shallow,  I  fear,  to  study  such  a 
work  as  Professor  James's  Varieties  of  Religious 
Experience,  and  certainly  too  superficial  ever 
to  experience  in  themselves  profound  spiritual 
changes  or,  indeed,  any  emotion  of  a  penetrating 
nature. 

The  answer  to  these  people  is  the  Seventy- 
Times-Seven  of  forgiveness.  Even  if  every  per- 
son in  the  world,  converted  from  infamy  to  pur- 
ity, from  crime  to  virtue,  from  selfishness  to  un- 
selfishness, from  cruelty  to  love,  from  hell  to 
heaven — even  if  every  one  of  them  reverted  to 
their  past,  still  conversion  would  remain  the  sov- 
ereign force  and  glory  of  religion.  For,  during 
the  period  of  their  conversion,  however  brief, 
the  lost  would  have  been  saved,  hell  empty,  and 
heaven  glad;  during  that  period,  however  brief, 
sins  which  might  have  been  committed  remained 
for  ever  uncommitted;  and  during  that  period — 
how  brief  or  how  long  does  not  matter — these 
people  proved  what  the  enemies  of  religion  will 
not  believe,  with  all  the  history  of  religious  ex- 
perience against  them — that  the  very  lowest  and 
vilest  of  men  are  capable  of  noble  thoughts  and 
lives  of  pure  unselfishness,  can,  over  and  over 


APPARENT  FAILURE 

again,  disprove  all  the  pessimism  of  "  heredity  " 
and  "  environment." 

And  above  all  other  considerations,  this:  A 
man  once  converted,  or  half  converted,  remains 
to  the  end  of  his  days  haunted  by  the  pure 
memory  in  his  life,  that  pure  interlude  when  hell 
receded  and  heaven  came  close  about  his  ways. 
I  do  not  believe  he  ever  becomes  wholly  bad.  I 
think  he  is  always  more  conscious  of  a  spiritual 
destiny  than  he  was  before  the  hour  of  his  half- 
conversion.  And  from  all  I  can  gather,  the  man 
whose  half-conversion  ends  in  apparent  failure, 
becomes,  in  his  fall,  little  worse  than  most  of  us 
who  languidly  commit  our  sins,  languidly  fight 
against  them  and  believe  all  the  time  that  we  are 
worthy  of  the  tremendous  things  uttered  by  poets 
and  prophets  concerning  man's  immortal  soul. 

Je  suis  le  champ  vil  des  sublimes  combats 
Tantot  1'homme  d'en  haut  et  tantot  I'homme  d'en  has ; 
Et  le  mal  dans  ma  bouche  avec  le  bien  alterne, 
Comme  dans  le  desert  le  sable  et  la  citerne. 

These  fallen  converts,  I  mean,  remain  fighters. 
They  may  give  up  religion,  but  they  maintain 
some  kind  of  conflict  with  their  lower  natures. 
Their  lapse  is  a  sin  at  which  we  must  not  sneer, 
but  which  we  must  forgive,  even  with  seventy- 
times-seven.  I  would  ask  the  reader,  who  doubts 
the  lastingness  of  conversion,  who  is  prejudiced 
against  this  pre-eminent  miracle  of  the  religious 


APPARENT  FAILURE  245 

life  by  the  cant  of  a  wholly  bastard  Christianity, 
and  who  thinks  that  humanity  could  get  along 
very  well  without  any  religion  at  all,  particularly 
emotional  religion,  to  consider  that  the  sto- 
ries in  this  book  are  really  true  stories,  that 
they  represent  the  actual  truth  of  poor  life  in 
London,  and  to  reflect  that  they  reveal,  even 
among  the  most  brutal,  sunken,  and  degraded,  a 
craving  after  religious  satisfactions,  the  denial  of 
which  would  impoverish  their  lives  and  make 
them  enemies  of  society.  To  welcome  the  con- 
version of  these  men  is  to  help  them  and  to  help 
humanity;  to  forgive  them  and  bid  them  strive 
again,  even  if  they  fall  headlong  back  to  former 
ruin,  is  Christ-like;  to  shrug  the  shoulder  at  them, 
to  deny  the  efficacy  of  their  regeneration,  is  to 
deny  the  chief  insisted  revelation  which  the 
Founder  of  Christianity  announced  to  mankind. 
I  believe  that  none  of  these  men  whose  stories 
I  have  tried  to  tell,  many  of  them  converted  for 
a  long  period  of  years,  will  ever  revert;  but  if 
they  should  relapse,  all  of  them,  I  should  still 
insist  upon  their  temporary  salvation  as  an  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  the  truth  of  religion,  and  as 
an  argument  in  favour  of  religion  as  the  supreme 
force  in  social  regeneration. 

But  here  follows  a  story  of  failure,  apparent 
failure;  and  this  story,  I  think,  will,  perhaps, 
more  convince  sceptical  readers  of  the  reality 
and  value  of  conversion  than  any  of  those  which 


246  APPARENT  FAILURE 

have  preceded  it,  where  no  question  of  failure 
arose.  Also,  I  trust  that  it  will  create  deeper 
sympathy  for  that  particular  religious  organiza- 
tion whose  work  among  the  outcasts  I  have  fol- 
lowed in  this  book,  and  make  its  methods  more 
respected  and  admired  by  those  who  judge  it 
without  knowledge. 

The  "  angel-adjutant,"  whose  work  made  so 
great  a  change  in  the  quarter  of  London  we  have 
glanced  at  in  these  pages,  went  from  London  to  a 
large  manufacturing  town,  where  drink  had  cre- 
ated courts  and  slums  almost  as  vile  as  any  in  the 
metropolis.  She  found  that  the  corps  of  the  Sal- 
vation Army  to  which  she  was  now  attached  had 
many  of  the  characteristics  of  a  respectable  and 
successful  sect.  The  large  hall  was  always  more 
or  less  filled  at  the  evening  meetings,  and  by 
people  who  appeared  to  be  prosperous,  happy,  and 
comfortable.  In  vain  did  she  look  for  the  Mis- 
erables,  with  broken  heads  and  drunken  faces, 
who  had  filled  the  back  benches  in  London.  She 
began  to  feel  half  afraid — such  is  the  character 
of  religious  zeal — that  the  town  was  without  out- 
casts. 

But  when  she  questioned  her  associates,  she 
found  that  the  place  had  Miserables  enough  and 
to  spare ;  that  there  were  many  black  slums,  and 
that  crime  flourished  particularly  in  one  bad  street 
where  no  one  dared  to  breathe  the  name  of  re- 
ligion. In  a  few  days  the  adjutant  had  visited 


APPARENT  FAILURE  247 

this  bad  street,  and  had  laid  her  plans  for 
battle. 

There  was  one  man  in  this  quarter  of  the  town, 
she  discovered,  who  exercised  more  influence  on 
the  wicked  than  any  other.  He  was  not  a  crim- 
inal. He  was  not  wholly  vicious.  But  there  was 
some  spell  of  personality  about  him  which  made 
him  a  force,  some  strength  of  individuality  and 
some  charm  of  being,  which  gave  him  power.  He 
was  young.  He  was  strong.  Few  men  dared  to 
face  him  in  fight.  His  bad  habit  was  drink. 

This  man  was  married,  and  lived  with  his 
mother  in  a  common  lodging-house,  where  he 
ruled  the  unruly  and  kept  order  in  vigorous 
fashion;  drunk  or  sober,  this  man  knew  the 
etiquette  of  the  lodging-house  and  saw  that  it 
was  observed.  His  mother  was  glad  of  him,  but 
wished  that  he  did  useful  money-earning  work 
in  the  day,  instead  of  drinking  himself  mad  in  the 
public-houses.  Otherwise,  a  good  son. 

The  adjutant  perceived  that  if  she  could  get 
this  man,  she  would  certainly  draw  a  great  many 
after  him.  She  therefore  concentrated  her  efforts 
on  securing  his  sympathy. 

He  was  astonished  when  this  meek  little  woman 
in  the  poke  bonnet  waylaid  him  in  the  midst  of 
that  bad  street,  so  astonished  that  he  stood  still 
and  stared  at  her. 

Throughout  London,  and,  indeed,  in  almost  all 
the  great  towns,  these  officers  of  the  Salvation 


248  APPARENT  FAILURE 

Army,  both  men  and  women,  are  familiar  figures 
in  the  worst  and  most  dangerous  streets.  Des- 
perate men  and  abandoned  women  have  these 
people  in  their  midst,  and  do  them  no  harm, 
offer  them  no  insult.  As  the  drunken  man  men- 
tioned in  a  footnote  on  another  page  said  to  this 
very  adjutant,  "  never  hurt  the  likes  of  you,  be- 
cause you  care  for  the  likes  of  us." 

But  it  happened  that  in  this  particular  town 
the  bad  street  had  not  been  visited  even  by  Sal- 
vationists. The  degraded  people  on  the  pave- 
ments and  in  the  road,  outside  public-houses, 
and  on  the  doorsteps  of  lodging-houses,  stared 
at  the  Salvationist  who  confronted  their  terror 
and  smiled  in  his  face. 

The  terror  himself  was  so  taken  aback  that  he 
listened. 

The  strategy  of  the  adjutant  took  this  form: 
she  said  that  she  was  organizing  a  great  meeting 
for  the  reclamation  of  drunkards  and  outcasts, 
that  she  was  new  to  the  town,  and  that  those  who 
knew  it  well  warned  her  of  opposition,  and  even 
of  a  riot  at  her  meeting.  And  she  concluded  by 
saying  that  she  had  heard  of  this  man's  great 
strength  and  his  powerful  influence  over  others, 
and  therefore  had  she  come  to  him  for  protec- 
tion. "  I  am  rather  afraid,"  she  said. 

He  began  to  understand,  began  to  be  flattered. 

She  then  asked  him  directly  if  he  would  come 
to  the  meeting,  and  if  he  would  use  his  influence 


APPARENT  FAILURE  249 

there  to  prevent  lawlessness  and  disorder.  "  I 
am  afraid — will  you  help  me?  " 

The  sweet  face  of  this  good  woman,  the  con- 
fidence of  her  appeal,  perhaps  the  gentleness  of 
her  voice,  had  an  immediate  effect  upon  this 
dangerous  man.  They  roused  in  him  all  that  was 
chivalrous  and  good  and  knightly.  He  became, 
even  there  in  the  street,  and  at  this  the  very  first 
appeal  to  his  goodness,  a  different  man.  The 
adjutant  had  reached  to  some  dim  and  mysterious 
field  of  consciousness.  She  had  touched  his 
soul. 

"  The  great  thing,"  says  Professor  James, 
"  which  the  higher  excitabilities  give  is  courage; 
and  the  addition  and  subtraction  of  a  certain 
amount  of  this  quality  makes  a  different  man, 
a  different  life.  Various  excitements  let  the 
courage  loose.  Trustful  hope  will  do  it;  inspir- 
ing example  will  do  it;  love  will  do  it;  wrath  will 
do  it.  In  some  people  it  is  natively  so  high  that 
the  mere  touch  of  danger  does  it,  though  danger 
is  for  most  men  the  great  inhibitor  of  action. 
*  Love  of  adventure '  becomes,  in  such  persons,  a 
ruling  passion,  '  I  believe,'  says  General  Skobe- 
leff,  *  that  my  bravery  is  simply  the  passion,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  contempt,  of  danger.  The 
risk  of  life  fills  me  with  an  exaggerated  rapture. 
The  fewer  there  are  to  share  it,  the  more  I  like  it. 
The  participation  of  my  body  in  the  event  is  re- 
quired to  furnish  me  an  adequate  excitement. 


250  APPARENT  FAILURE 

Everything  intellectual  appears  to  me  to  be  re- 
flex; but  a  meeting  of  man  to  man,  a  duel,  a 
danger  into  which  I  can  throw  myself  headfore- 
most, attracts  me,  moves  me,  intoxicates  me.  I 
am  crazy  for  it,  I  love  it,  I  adore  it.  I  run  after 
danger  as  one  runs  after  women;  I  wish  it  never 
to  stop.  Were  it  always  the  same,  it  would  al- 
ways bring  me  a  new  pleasure.  When  I  throw 
myself  into  an  adventure  in  which  I  hope  to  find 
it,  my  heart  palpitates  with  the  uncertainty;  I 
could  wish  at  once  to  have  it  appear  and  yet  to 
delay.  A  sort  of  painful  and  delicious  shiver 
shakes  me,  my  entire  nature  runs  to  meet  the 
peril  with  an  impetus  that  my  will  would  in 
vain  try  to  resist.' ' 

Such  a  man,  with  the  difference  made  by  na- 
tionality, education,  and  social  environment,  was 
this  terror  of  the  bad  street  to  whom  our  adjutant 
made  her  appeal.  It  was  his  courage,  his  love  of 
danger,  which  made  him  respond  to  her  petition 
with  a  vigorous  promise  to  see  her  through  with 
her  meeting. 

That  meeting  filled  the  great  hall  to  overflowing 
with  the  worst  people  in  the  town.  The  announce- 
ment that  certain  well-known  former  bad  char- 
acters would  speak,  testify  to  conversion,  at- 
tracted the  crowd;  and  the  rumour  that  Jack, 
their  own  local  terror,  was  to  be  among  the  audi- 
ence roused  a  widespreading  curiosity. 

For  the  first  time  the  new  hall  was  literally 


APPARENT  FAILURE  251 

filled  with  those  people  to  whom  the  Salvation 
Army  makes  it  a  most  earnest  part  of  their  mis- 
sion to  minister — the  vile,  the  degraded,  the  aban- 
doned, and  the  lost,  those  off-scourings  of  our 
nation  almost  entirely  neglected  by  all  other  re- 
ligious bodies.  Jack  kept  order  with  a  bullying 
energy  till  the  meeting  began,  warning  the  mock- 
ers and  the  drunken  that  he  would  pitch  them 
out  and  give  them  rough  handling  if  they  dis- 
turbed the  little  woman's  entertainment. 

They  sang  a  hymn  to  begin  with,  then  there 
was  a  prayer,  then  the  adjutant  read  her  favourite 
parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  So  far  there  was 
no  disorder,  and  Jack's  duties  carried  him  no 
further  than  scowling  in  the  direction  of  those 
he  wanted  to  fall  upon  and  chastise,  but  who, 
vexatiously  enough,  behaved  with  every  possible 
propriety. 

Then  followed  the  testimonies. 

Jack  soon  forgot  to  look  about  for  disorder. 
He  stood  in  the  front  of  the  standing  pack  which 
occupied  the  back  of  the  hall  listening.  He  saw 
men  who  had  been  prize-fighters,  criminals, 
tramps,  and  petty  thieves  standing  clean  and 
happy  on  the  platform  speaking  of  the  joy  that 
had  come  to  them  with  conversion,  and  explaining 
that  conversion  meant  a  surrender  of  man's  muti- 
nous will  to  the  will  of  a  God  all-anxious  to  care 
for  them.  Again  and  again  came  the  assurance : 
"  However  bad  any  man  here  may  feel  himself 


APPARENT  FAILURE 

to  be,  however  hopeless  and  ashamed  and  lost 
he  may  feel,  he  has  only  to  come  out  publicly 
to  this  penitent  form,  kneel  down  and  ask  God 
for  His  mercy,  to  have  the  load  lifted  off  his  soul 
and  to  feel  himself  strong  in  the  strength  of 
Almighty  God  to  overcome  all  his  temptations." 

When,  at  the  end  of  the  meeting,  the  formal 
invitation  was  made,  among  the  many  wretched 
and  miserable  souls  who  advanced  to  the  form 
was  this  local  terror  who  had  come  to  keep 
order. 

The  same  spirit  which  had  impelled  him  to 
come  to  the  meeting  impelled  him  to  the  form. 
He  was  brought  to  see  that,  with  all  his  strength 
and  courage,  drink  was  his  master  and  he  its 
slave.  His  honour  was  touched.  To  make  a 
fight  against  such  a  tyrant  struck  him  as  a  grand 
conflict,  one  of  Victor  Hugo's  "sublimes  com- 
bats." He  rose  up  and  went  to  the  form,  be- 
cause it  was  a  difficult  thing  to  do,  because 
it  required  courage.  He  was  not  drawn  there, 
touched  by  compassion  for  the  Man  of  Sorrows 
or  ecstasied  by  love  of  God;  he  was  not,  perhaps, 
in  any  mood  of  imaginable  repentance.  All  the 
changes  in  his  brain  ran  into  the  one  channel 
of  energy:  "  I  am  not  afraid;  I  will  do  this  thing; 
I  will  get  the  Victory." 

When  the  adjutant  told  me  of  this  meeting,  she 
said :  "  Jack  was  converted  from  drink,  but  that 
is  not  the  real  thing." 


APPARENT  FAILURE  253 

Nevertheless,  it  was  a  very  great  thing.  He 
rose  up  from  his  knees  a  changed  and  altered  man. 
He  said  he  was  saved — meaning  that  he  felt  con- 
scious of  profound  change  in  his  spiritual  being. 
He  said  he  would  come  regularly  to  the  meetings, 
and  promised  to  bring  others  with  him.  He 
went  out  happy  and  confident. 

Now,  there  was  tragedy  in  this  man's  life.  He 
had  married  in  his  youth  a  woman  who  had 
neither  the  power  to  keep  him  good  nor  the  ability 
to  resist  in  herself  the  contagion  of  his  example. 
She  had  come  to  a  state  of  moral  feebleness  which 
inspired  in  her  husband  nothing  but  disgust.  He 
had  thrashed  her  cruelly  on  many  occasions,  with- 
out altering  her  character;  he  now  appealed  to 
her  from  his  vantage  of  respectability,  equally  in 
vain.  She  sank  lower  and  lower. 

To  the  man  making  his  fight  against  drink  the 
companionship  of  this  poor  creature  was  odious 
and  sometimes  maddening. 

The  adjutant  saw  how  things  were,  tried  to  save 
the  woman,  tried  to  make  the  man  patient  under 
his  provocation,  and  watched  over  that  interest- 
ing drama  with  anxiety  and  solicitude.  One  day 
it  reached  her  that  the  man  had  fallen  back  into 
drunkenness. 

She  got  upon  her  bicycle  and  rode  immediately 
to  the  bad  street.  She  was  half-way  down  the 
evil  road  when  she  saw  him.  He  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  bloody  fight  with  his  brother.  Like 


APPARENT  FAILURE 

two  madmen,  their  faces  horrible  with  cuts, 
bruises,  and  blood,  the  two  men  rushed  and  struck 
at  each  other  with  all  the  passion  of  murder. 
To  interfere  with  those  madmen  seemed  like 
madness.  But  the  adjutant  got  off  her  bicycle, 
gave  it  to  one  of  the  crowd,  and  going  in  amongst 
the  fighters,  caught  hold  of  her  man  and  implored 
him  to  desist.  He  shook  her  off  with  a  foul 
oath,  warning  her  that  he  would  strike  her  if 
she  interfered,  and  rushed  upon  his  brother  again 
with  added  hate  and  new  fury.  There  was  a 
stable  close  by,  with  the  door  open.  It  flashed 
through  the  adjutant's  brain  that  the  crowd  in 
the  street  kept  up  the  excitement  of  the  fight. 
She  waited  till  the  brothers  were  locked  together 
close  to  this  open  door,  and  then — how  she  did  it 
she  does  not  know — she  threw  herself  upon  them 
both,  pushed  them  into  the  stable,  shut  the  door 
in  a  flash  and  locked  it. 

Bruised  and  terribly  wounded,  the  lapsed  con- 
vert came  to  the  next  meeting,  knelt  afresh  at 
the  penitent  form,  and  vowed  that  he  would  never 
again  give  way  to  drink. 

The  adjutant  saw  what  fine  courage  this  man 
possessed  to  come  publicly  in  his  shame,  under 
the  watchful  eyes  of  his  bad  neighbourhood,  once 
again  to  implore  the  forgiveness  and  help  of  God. 
But  she  feared  that  conversion  was  still  incom- 
plete, and  dreaded  another  relapse — well  knowing 
the  frightful  influence  of  the  bad  wife. 


APPARENT  FAILURE  255 

Some  time  after  came  the  nen^s  that  the  man 
had  beaten  his  wife  and  turned  her  out  of  doors. 
The  adjutant  went  to  see  him.  He  said  that  a 
good  life  with  that  woman  was  impossible;  but 
now  that  he  was  free  of  her  he  intended  never 
again  to  fall,  never  again  to  drink,  smoke,  bet, 
or  fight,  but  always  to  keep  his  soul  pure  and 
strong. 

Here  was  a  problem  to  begin  with — the  man's 
responsibility  to  his  wife.  Was  he  justified  in 
turning  her  out  of  doors?  Many  will  say  Yes, 
angry  that  such  a  right  should  be  questioned. 
The  woman  was  bad,  her  influence  checked  the 
man's  goodness,  she  stood  between  him  and  his 
God.  But  religious  people  whose  logic  is  the  com- 
mandment of  an  absolute  Master  cannot  give  that 
confident  answer.  This  husband  had  promised  to 
protect  his  wife — he  had  thrown  her  upon  the 
streets.  He  had  vowed  before  God  to  cherish 
her — he  had  abandoned  her  to  the  world.  His 
salvation  was  a  selfish  salvation;  without  hers 
it  was  not  the  salvation  of  Christ. 

And  yet,  to  take  her  back,  perhaps  to  sink 
with  her  down  to  the  abyss — who  could  advise 
this  dangerous  course? 

The  adjutant,  mothering  the  soul  of  this 
troubled  man,  was  sorely  puzzled  by  his  problem; 
but  the  complexity  of  it  was  not  yet  reached. 

He  made  his  wife  an  allowance,  they  were 
properly  separated,  and  he  began  a  new  life. 


256  APPARENT  FAILURE 

The  change  in  him  was  really  remarkable.  He 
became  smart  in  his  appearance,  clean  in  his 
habits,  respectable  in  his  way  of  living,  and  regu- 
lar in  his  religion.  He  was  never  what  one  could 
call  devout.  His  vision  did  not  extend  beyond 
the  earth.  The  supreme  influence  in  his  soul 
was  not  celestial,  but  purely  human;  it  was  a 
desire  to  please  the  pure  woman  who  had  once 
appealed  to  his  chivalry,  and  who  had  believed 
in  him  even  when  he  lapsed  again  and  again 
into  sin.  Through  this  humanity  he  reached  into 
the  religious  sphere,  so  far  as  he  was  able. 

The  adjutant  had  to  be  content  with  this  de- 
velopment of  character,  which  seemed  his  utmost. 
She  could  not,  being  a  woman,  feel  anything  but 
pleasure  at  his  devotion;  she  could  not,  being  a 
missionary,  prevent  herself  from  feeling  delight 
at  the  great  change  in  his  character;  but,  being 
a  Salvationist,  she  remained  disquieted  by  his 
distance  from  true  spirituality,  and  anxious,  al- 
ways anxious,  as  to  his  future. 

Some  time  had  passed,  and  he  was  still  a  model 
of  respectability  in  that  foul  neighbourhood,  still 
an  influence,  at  least  for  sobriety  and  order,  in 
a  quarter  of  the  town  where  once  he  had  been 
the  ringleader  in  all  things  evil,  when  the  devil 
once  more  got  in  his  way. 

Remember,  that  religion  had  changed  him  from 
a  very  bad  man  into  a  decent,  sober,  and  self- 
respecting  citizen;  remember,  also,  that  since  the 


APPARENT  FAILURE  257 

departure  of  his  wife  he  had  found  it  easier  to 
maintain  the  battle  against  the  pressing  tempta- 
tions of  his  neighbourhood — a  really  terribly  diffi- 
cult thing  to  do.  Remember  this,  before  you  see 
him  in  his  next  stage.  Converted,  half  con- 
verted, or  not  converted  at  all,  this  once  quite  bad 
man  had  become,  under  the  influence  of  religion, 
a  good  man — for  the  neighbourhood  in  which  he 
lived,  a  saint. 

Well,  this  is  what  happened. 

He  rose  early  one  morning,  in  his  mother's 
lodging-house,  washed,  dressed,  and  set  off  before 
anyone  was  stirring  for  his  daily  work.  As  he 
opened  the  door,  he  saw  the  bowed  figure  of  a 
woman  crouched  upon  the  steps  under  the  porch. 
He  took  her  for  some  poor  old  vagrant,  who  had 
stolen  into  that  shelter  for  a  night's  lodging.  He 
spoke  to  her  briskly,  but  with  kindness  in  his 
voice. 

"  Hullo ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

She  lifted  her  face  from  her  knees,  turned  her 
head,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  weary,  sleepy 
eyes.  She  was  quite  young.  She  was  pretty. 
She  was  pathetic  in  her  sorrow. 

He  saw  that  she  was  well  dressed.  He  noticed 
that  there  was  a  black  shadow  under  one  of  her 
eyes. 

"  My  man  struck  me  last  night,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  left  him.  I'll  never  go  back  again." 


258  APPARENT  FAILURE 

"  Your  husband,   you  mean." 

"  No,  he  isn't  my  husband." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I'll  never  go  back  to  that 
one  again." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  shall  do  all  right." 

He  felt  in  his  pockets.  "  Look  here,"  he  said, 
giving  her  some  coins,  "  you  go  and  get  yourself 
a  cup  of  coffee.  I'd  do  more  for  you  if  I  could. 
Anyhow,  I'm  sorry.  You're  too  young  to  be 
out  in  the  streets." 

He  nodded  to  her  and  went  off. 

The  adjutant  says,  not  bitterly,  and  quite 
gently,  that  the  devil  entered  into  that  girl  on  the 
doorstep.  I  rather  think  that  the  kind  words  of 
the  man,  and  the  masculine  compassion  in  his 
attractive  eyes,  melted  something  in  the  heart  of 
the  poor  forsaken  creature  and  filled  her  with  a 
new  hope.  Perhaps  they  were  the  kindest  words 
she  had  ever  heard.  Perhaps  the  man  was  the 
best  man  she  had  ever  set  eyes  upon.  If  one 
considers  her  position — the  doorstep  of  a  lodging- 
house  on  a  bitter  winter's  morning,  an  entire 
loneliness  in  the  midst  of  the  great  cold,  unchar- 
itable world — and  then  endeavours  to  imagine  the 
effect  of  kind  words  and  compassionate  eyes, 
there  will  be,  I  think,  no  need  to  drag  in  the 
agency  of  the  devil  to  understand  what  followed. 
Remember  that  she  was  little  more  than  a  child. 


APPARENT  FAILURE  259 

The  man  came  back  from  his  work.  The  girl 
was  waiting  for  him  in  the  street.  He  had 
thought  about  her  during  the  day.  He  was  not 
sorry  to  see  her  there  again.  Something  in  her 
pretty  face  and  pathetic  eyes  had  appealed  to  him. 

The  girl  stopped  him,  and  spoke  to  him.  They 
stood  a  few  minutes  in  the  street  outside  his  home, 
talking  together  in  low  voices.  He  thought  over 
what  she  had  to  say  to  him,  and  then  they 
walked  off  together. 

In  a  day  or  two  the  adjutant  knew  that  this 
convert  was  keeping  a  mistress. 

But  here,  to  begin  with,  was  a  problem — he 
came  as  usual  to  the  meetings  in  the  hall,  and 
maintained  his  religious  bearing.  Was  he  a  hypo- 
crite? One  becomes  impatient  of  such  crude 
questions.  Nevertheless,  was  it  possible  for  the 
Army  to  countenance  a  man  living  in  open  sin? 
One  great  side  of  its  work  among  the  poor  is 
for  domestic  purity.  Very  few  people,  perhaps, 
know  how  great  a  problem  is  presented  to  the 
social  reformer  in  the  slums  by  this  vexed  ques- 
tion of  marriage.  The  Salvation  Army  has  done, 
and  is  doing,  an  immense  work  for  the  sanctity 
of  marriage.  It  has  done,  and  is  doing,  this 
great  work  under  conditions  of  heartbreaking 
difficulty.  The  law  which  permits  husband  and 
wife  to  separate  without  granting  them  that 
divorce  which  alone  can  enable  them  to  marry 
again,  has  made  for  great  immorality.  Almost 


260  APPARENT  FAILURE 

every  man  and  woman  so  separated,  thousands 
every  year,  find  a  mate  and  form  a  union  unsanc- 
tioned  by  religion  or  State.  The  thousands,  tens 
of  thousands,  of  boys  and  girls  who  marry  every 
year  and  then  separate  over  poverty,  drunken- 
ness, or  brutality,  spread  a  vast  influence  over 
the  community  making  for  contempt  of  religious 
responsibility  in  the  sacrament  of  marriage.  The 
number  of  illicit  unions  in  the  poor  quarters  of 
London  is  extraordinarily  great,  and  every  year 
witnesses  a  further  and  wider  weakening  of  the 
marriage  bond.  Against  this  deplorable  condi- 
tion of  things — so  dangerous  to  the  State,  so  un- 
happy for  posterity — the  Salvation  Army  has 
opposed  the  strictest  idea  of  purity.  The  most 
powerful  weapon  in  its  hand  when  combating 
misery  and  wretchedness  is  the  shining  testimony 
of  the  happy  home,  where  religion  consecrates  the 
love  of  man  and  woman  and  creates  the  beauty 
of  the  family.  The  Army,  working  in  the  vilest 
parts  of  London,  insists  upon  purity.  No  force, 
I  really  think,  is  doing  more  in  the  worst  parts 
of  England  for  the  sacredness  of  marriage — on 
which  so  much  depends — than  this  saving  host 
of  missionaries  working  by  the  ancient  reed  of 
conversion. 

Well,  what  could  the  adjutant  do  in  this  mat- 
ter ?  Was  she  to  forbid  the  man  to  come  to  meet- 
ings, as  the  Church  would  assuredly  forbid  him 
her  sacraments,  and  by  so  doing  thrust  him  back 


APPARENT  FAILURE  261 

into  his  old  excesses,  his  old  lost  state  of  de- 
pravity and  sin?  It  was  a  difficult  matter.  One 
course  was  open  to  her  that  seemed  right  and 
hopeful,  an  appeal  to  his  awakened  conscience. 

She  saw  him  alone  and  spoke  to  him.  At  first 
he  denied  the  charge — anxious  for  the  adjufant's 
regard — then,  when  she  smiled  reproachfully,  so 
sad  for  that  lie,  and  said  that  she  knew  the  truth 
— he  protested  that  he  was  only  standing  between 
the  poor  forsaken  girl  and  the  world  that  was 
ready  to  ruin  her.  But  the  adjutant  pressed  her 
charge  with  kindly  and  gentle  sympathy,  and  at 
last  he  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes  and  said, 
"  I  won't  deceive  you;  I  care  for  her." 

Then  came  the  appeal  to  his  awakened  con- 
science, would  he  give  her  up?  He  was  living 
with  her  in  sin,  he  was  injuring  her  soul  as  well 
as  his  own,  he  was  not  following  Christ  Who 
had  done  so  much  for  him,  but  was  actually 
turning  his  back  upon  that  pure  Saviour — would 
he  give  her  up  ?  Help  her  to  be  good  ?  Help  his 
own  soul  to  be  innocent  and  pure? 

No;  he  would  not  give  her  up. 

The  man  had  reason  on  his  side.  The  problem 
lay  in  the  sound  reasonableness  of  his  position. 
He  said  the  girl  loved  him  purely,  and  helped  him 
to  live  a  good  life.  He  said  that  he  had  now 
got,  for  the  first  time,  a  home  that  was  happy. 
He  declared  that  without  the  love  of  this  girl  he 
could  not  face  the  world.  If  she  had  dragged 


262  APPARENT  FAILURE 

him  down,  if  she  had  made  him  indifferent  to 
religion,  he  would  have  thrown  her  off.  But,  no; 
her  influence  was  all  for  goodness,  kindness,  de- 
cency, respectability,  and  happiness.  She  was 
helping  him.  He  could  not  see  the  crime  or  the 
sin  of  living  with  her.  In  his  sin  he  had  married 
a  woman  who  dragged  his  soul  to  hell;  in  his 
regeneration  he  had  found  a  woman  who  braced 
his  strength  for  goodness.  If  the  law  freed  him 
from  his  wife,  he  could  marry  this  girl;  if  the 
law  would  not  free  him,  he  would  stand  by  her, 
protect  her,  cherish  her,  love  her  to  the  hour  of 
his  death.  No  one  should  come  between  him 
and  this  good  girl,  who  made  him  happy. 

However  reasonable  this  position,  it  was  a 
position  clean  contrary  to  the  injunctions  of  re- 
ligion. From  the  point  of  view  of  the  present 
world,  the  man's  logic  was  unassailable.  But  re- 
ligion looks  to  two  worlds.  What  appears  so  un- 
reasonable in  Christianity  is  the  logic  which 
embraces  the  universe.  Christianity  is  not  a  code 
of  morals;  it  is  a  religion.  It  is  not  a  terrestrial 
religion;  it  is  a  cosmical  religion.  For  those  who 
believe  in  it,  all  its  injunctions,  however  hard 
and  apparently  unreasonable,  are  easy  and  just, 
because  its  purpose  is  the  evolution  and  develop- 
ment of  a  spirit  unbounded  by  time  and  place, 
and  created  for  immortality. 

The  distressed  and  affectionate  adjutant,  con- 
fronted by  this  great  problem,  could  only  preach 


APPARENT  FAILURE  263 

her  gospel,  could  only  insist  upon  its  insistence. 
That  insistence  is  emphatic  enough.  "  Ye  cannot 
serve  God  and  mammon."  Professor  James 
speaks  about  "the  divided  self  ";  religion  comes 
to  heal  the  division,  to  consummate  a  unity.  A 
hundred  familiar  phrases  rise  to  one's  mind. 
"  Thou  madest  us  for  Thyself,  and  our  heart  is 
restless,  until  it  repose  in  Thee."  Empty  thy 
heart,  says  an  old  mystic,  of  all  which  may 
"  hinder  that  immediate  Contact,  that  Central 
Touch  between  thee  and  thy  God."  "  The  Per- 
fection of  the  Soul  is  her  union  with  God." 
"  What  must  the  condition  of  those  Wretched 
Spirits  be,  who  have  no  more  union  with  God 
than  what  is  just  enough  to  sustain  them  in  Be- 
ing .  .  .  what  must  the  Darkness,  what  the 
Poverty,  what  the  Barrenness,  what  the  Coldness, 
Dryness,  Deadness,  Emptiness,  Desolation,  and 
Solitude  of  such  a  State!  Depart  from  Me  ye 
Cursed!  I  need  not  add  into  Everlasting  Fire, 
for  here  we  have  hell  enough  already." 

It  is  religion  which  unifies  the  dual  nature  of 
man,  which  saves  him  from  the  conflict  by  fixing 
his  purpose  and  his  affection  on  one  subject,  his 
Creator  and  his  God.  This  is  what  mystics  call 
"  the  Unitive  way  of  Religion."  We  must  under- 
stand that  position,  before  we  can  realize  the 
ability  of  such  fine  and  compassionate  natures  as 
those  which  follow  Christ  into  the  dark  places 
of  our  civilization,  to  preach  an  unequivocal  gos- 


264  APPARENT  FAILURE 

pel  to  the  sad  and  sorrowful  for  whom  they  feel 
so  profoundly.  One  must  perceive  that  these 
people  definitely  and  with  a  great  assurance  be- 
lieve that  no  single  soul  can  be  happy,  at  peace 
with  itself,  or  secure  in  its  evolution,  which  is 
not  united  with  the  Will  of  God.  It  is  because 
of  this  great  assurance  that  they  are  so  relentless 
in  their  preaching  of  utter  holiness.  Consider 
for  a  moment  these  two  striking  testimonies : 

"  My  sadness,"  says  Adolphe  Monod,  "  was 
without  limit,  and  having  got  entire  possession  of 
me,  it  filled  my  life  from  the  most  indifferent 
external  acts  to  the  most  sacred  thoughts,  and 
corrupted  at  their  source  my  feelings,  my  judg- 
ment, and  my  happiness.  It  was  then  that  I 
saw  that  to  expect  to  put  a  stop  to  this  disorder 
by  my  reason  and  my  will,  which  were  themselves 
diseased,  would  be  to  act  like  a  blind  man  who 
should  pretend  to  correct  one  of  his  eyes  by  the 
aid  of  the  other  equally  blind  one.  I  had  then 
no  resource  save  in  some  influence  from  without. 
I  remembered  the  promise  of  the  Holy  Ghost; 
and  what  the  positive  declarations  of  the  Gospel 
had  never  succeeded  in  bringing  home  to  me,  I 
learned  at  last  from  necessity,  and  believed,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  in  this  promise,  in  the 
only  sense  in  which  it  answered  the  needs  of  my 
soul,  in  that,  namely,  of  a  real,  external,  super- 
natural action,  capable  of  giving  me  thoughts, 
and  taking  them  away  from  me,  and  exerted  on 


APPARENT  FAILURE  265 

me  by  a  God  as  truly  master  of  my  heart  as  He 
is  of  the  rest  of  nature.  Renouncing  then  all 
merit,  all  strength,  abandoning  all  my  personal 
resources,  and  acknowledging  no  other  title  to 
His  mercy  than  my  own  utter  misery,  I  went 
home  and  threw  myself  on  my  knees,  and  prayed 
as  I  never  yet  prayed  in  my  life.  From  this  day 
onwards  a  new  interior  life  began  for  me;  not 
that  my  melancholy  had  disappeared,  but  it  had 
lost  its  sting.  Hope  had  entered  into  my  heart, 
and  once  entered  on  the  path,  the  God  of  Jesus 
Christ,  to  whom  I  then  had  learned  to  give  myself 
jip,  little  by  little,  did  the  rest." 
y  "  God,"  says  Martin  Luther,  "  is  the  God  of  the 
humble,  the  miserable,  the  oppressed,  and  the 
desperate,  and  of  those  that  are  brought  even  to 
nothing;  and  His  nature  is  to  give  sight  to  the 
blind,  to  comfort  the  broken-hearted,  to  justify 
sinners,  to  save  the  very  desperate  and  damned. 
Now  that  pernicious  and  pestilent  opinion  of 
man's  own  righteousness,  which  will  not  be  a 
sinner,  unclean,  miserable,  and  damnable,  but 
righteous  and  holy,  suffereth  not  God  to  come  to 
His  own  natural  and  proper  work.  Therefore, 
God  must  take  that  maul  in  hand  (the  law,  I 
mean)  to  beat  in  pieces  and  bring  to  nothing  this 
beast  with  her  vain  confidence,  that  she  may  so 
learn  at  length  by  her  own  misery  that  she  is 
utterly  forlorn  and  damned.  But  here  lieth  the 
difficulty,  that  when  a  man  is  terrified  and  cast 


266  APPARENT  FAILURE 

down,  he  is  so  little  able  to  raise  himself  up 
again,  and  say,  '  Now  I  am  bruised  and  afflicted 
enough:  now  is  the  time  of  grace:  now  is  the 
time  to  hear  Christ/  The  foolishness  of  man's 
heart  is  so  great  that  then  he  rather  seeketh  to 
himself  more  laws  to  satisfy  his  conscience.  '  If 
I  live,'  saith  he,  '  I  will  amend  my  life :  I  will 
do  this.  I  will  do  that.'  But  here,  except  thou 
do  the  quite  contrary,  except  thou  send  Moses 
away  with  his  law,  and  in  these  terrors  and 
anguish  lay  hold  upon  Christ  Who  died  for  thy 
sins,  look  for  no  salvation.  Thy  cowl,  thy  shaven 
crown,  thy  chastity,  thy  obedience,  thy  poverty, 
thy  works,  thy  merits  ?  What  shall  all  these  do  ? 
What  shall  the  law  of  Moses  avail?  If  I, 
wretched  and  damnable  sinner,  through  works 
or  merits  could  have  loved  the  Son  of  God,  and 
so  come  to  Him,  what  needed  He  to  deliver  Him- 
self for  me  ?  If  I,  being  a  wretched  and  damned 
sinner,  could  be  redeemed  by  any  other  price, 
what  needed  the  Son  of  God  to  be  given?  But 
because  there  was  no  other  price,  therefore  He 
delivered  neither  sheep,  ox,  gold,  nor  silver,  but 
even  God  Himself,  entirely  and  wholly  '  for  me,' 
even '  for  me,'  I  say,  a  miserable,  wretched  sinner. 
Now,  therefore,  I  take  comfort  and  apply  this 
to  myself.  And  this  manner  of  applying  is  the 
very  true  force  and  power  of  faith.  For  He  died 
not  to  justify  the  righteous,  but  the  wwrighteous, 
and  to  make  them  the  children  of  God." 


APPARENT  FAILURE  267 

Such  is  the  faith  of  Salvationists,  and  such  was 
the  gospel,  she  had  no  other,  which  the  little 
angel-adjutant  of  the  slums  had  to  preach  to  her 
convert.  It  is  necessary  for  the  reader  to  make 
himself  well  acquainted  with  the  inexorable  and 
unalterable  gospel  which  the  Salvationists  insist 
upon  with  the  lost  and  the  evil. 

He  heard  her  out,  did  not  attempt  to  controvert 
her  arguments,  and  went  away  to  live  the  life  that 
seemed  good  in  his  own  eyes. 

She  saw  him  several  times,  heard  of  him  again 
and  again,  and  never  desisted  from  appealing  to 
his  better  nature.  But  gradually  he  slipped  out 
of  religion,  gradually  he  became  less  respectable, 
and  at  last  he  definitely— so  it  seemed — aban- 
doned all  struggle  to  be  his  highest. 

The  adjutant  went  to  him  in  his  home.  The 
woman  was  not  there.  It  was  now  the  moment 
for  her  great  appeal.  With  all  the  tenderness  of 
her  gentle  character  she  made  the  man  feel  the 
difference  in  his  present  state  and  that  of  only 
a  few  months  ago,  when  he  was  living  in  purity 
and  serving  God  by  trying  to  make  other  people 
better.  He  was  softened,  and  in  his  relenting 
mood  she  pressed  home  to  his  heart  the  condition 
of  the  woman's  soul  with  whom  he  was  living  in 
sin.  Was  she  really  good?  Was  she  pure? 
Was  she  willing  to  live  as  God  wanted  all  pure 
women  to  live — in  service  for  others?  Could 
he  say  solemnly  before  God  that  he  was  not  pre- 


268  APPARENT  FAILURE 

venting  her  by  this  life  of  sin  from  uniting  her 
will  with  the  will  of  God — from  being  her  best 
possible  ? 

He  listened,  wretched  and  unhappy,  to  her 
searching  words.  He  knew  their  truth.  Gradu- 
ally this  girl  who  had  come  to  him  like  a  spaniel, 
and  who  had  seemed  so  sweet,  affectionate,  and 
pliant,  had  drifted  into  bad  habits,  had  associ- 
ated with  women  living  a  life  like  her  own,  was 
now  hardening  and  growing  dark  of  soul.  The 
life  was  not  a  good  one.  But  he  was  fond  of 
her  still.  For  him,  there  was  no  other  woman 
in  the  world.  What  was  he  to  do? 

The  Salvationist  asked  him  to  give  her  up, 
spoke  about  placing  her  in  the  Army's  home  for 
such  women,  made  him  hold  the  hope  that  one  day 
this  poor  sinner  might  be  herself  rescuing  the 
fallen  and  unfortunate. 

He  lifted  his  head  at  that.  "  I  won't  hinder 
you,"  he  said.  "  I  tell  you  what.  I  won't  turn 
her  out  of  doors,  but  if  she  goes,  I  won't  go  after 
her." 

That  was  the  extent  of  his  sacrifice. 

If  it  was  not  the  utterance  of  one's  idea  of  a 
converted  soul,  at  least  it  was  not  very  unlike 
some  of  St.  Augustine's  earlier  prayers.  How 
different,  at  any  rate,  from  the  thing  he  would 
have  said  before  conversion. 

An  appeal  to  the  woman  succeeded,  after  much 
persuasion,  in  moving  her  heart  towards  renuncia- 


APPARENT  FAILURE  269 

tion.  She  agreed  to  leave  the  man,  and  said  she 
would  go  into  the  rescue  home. 

That  very  night  the  adjutant  took  her  to  Lon- 
don, carried  her  to  the  home,  and  remained  with 
her  till  the  next  day.  But  morning  brought  dis- 
illusion to  the  girl's  mind.  She  had  not  suffered 
remorse,  she  was  not  spiritual,  for  a  cleansed  mind 
and  a  pure  soul  she  had  no  longing  or  desire. 
For  the  rest,  the  home  did  not  appeal  to  her  sym- 
pathies. She  had  no  broken  and  contrite  spirit, 
such  as  that  of  the  women  in  the  place,  most  of 
them  gladly  content  to  work  out  their  repentance 
in  humility  and  silence  and  shadow.  The  girl 
was  not  conscious  of  sin.  She  would  not  stay. 

So  the  adjutant  was  obliged  to  bring  her  back, 
and  the  girl  returned  to  the  man. 

He  was  now  lost  to  the  Army.  He  was,  in 
technical  phrase,  a  backslider.  The  world  migkt 
have  pointed  to  him  with  amusement  as  an  ex- 
ample of  these  emotional  conversions.  Even  the 
adjutant  herself  thought  of  him  as  a  lost  sheep. 

No  news  of  him  came  to  the  Salvation  Army, 
he  dropped  out  of  that  busy  ministering  life,  he 
sank  in  the  depths  of  the  poor  quarters,  where 
religion  apparently  has  no  power. 

And  yet,  hear  the  sequel. 

The  union  was  not  happy.  Man  and  woman, 
sinking  together,  with  no  sacred  affection  to  make 
them  even  kindly  and  forbearing  to  each  other, 
quarrelled  and  came  to  blows.  They  parted; 


270  APPARENT  FAILURE 

the  woman  to  form  another  evil  alliance,  the  man 
to  take  back  his  wife. 

Long  after  this,  the  adjutant  received  her 
marching  orders.  A  special  service  was  organ- 
ized for  the  night  of  her  departure,  a  service  of 
farewell  to  the  best  friend  of  the  poor  and  the 
outcast  who  had  ever  worked  in  that  town. 

To  her  surprise  the  man  attended  this  meeting, 
and  at  its  conclusion  he  came  to  the  penitent  form. 

Now  there  was  no  occasion  for  him  to  make 
this  appearance,  he  derived  no  advantage  by  kneel- 
ing with  the  penitent,  his  attendance  was  his  own 
will,  his  penitence — requiring  no  little  courage — 
was  entirely  his  own  thought.  One  thinks  that 
perhaps  his  failure  to  live  the  highest  life  was 
only  a  failure  in  relativity,  that  the  adjutant's 
failure  with  her  convert  was  apparent  rather 
than  real.  For  from  this  man  she  presently  re- 
ceived a  manly  letter  of  good-bye,  a  letter  which 
confessed  his  weakness,  implored  her  forgiveness, 
and  expressed  his  gratitude  for  her  kindness — 
the  letter  of  a  backslider,  but  one  whose  sliding 
had  not  carried  him  right  back.  Is  this  not  a 
case  where  one  may  attach  a  new  meaning  to  a 
hackneyed  phrase,  and  verily  say,  "  'Tis  better 
to  have  loved  and  lost,  than  never  to  have  loved 
at  all"? 

The  failures  of  the  Salvation  Army !  What  a 
book  might  be  written  of  these  people!  How- 
ever far  they  fall  one  cannot  think  that  they  ever 


APPARENT  FAILURE  271 

forget  the  hour  of  their  penitence,  the  moment 
of  their  vision,  and  the  desire  of  their  hearts  for 
cleanness  and  mercy.  In  the  larger  self,  that 
vast  field  of  unexplored  consciousness,  the  mem- 
ory of  these  things  works  toward  some  end  in 
their  destiny,  wholly  good  and  wholly  pure.  A 
profound  thought,  deeply  planted,  can  never  be 
rooted  from  the  mind,  and  a  soul  that  has  once 
looked  and  recognized  and  desired  the  highest 
can  never  for  the  rest  of  existence  be  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  lowest.  One  thinks  that  the 
failures  pray  in  secret,  some  of  them,  and  that 
nearly  all  of  them — this  I  feel  is  really  true  and 
important  to  remember — never  become  so  bad  as 
they  might  have  been. 

It's  wiser  being  good  than   bad; 

It's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce: 
It's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst! 


POSTSCRIPT 

1  THINK  that  every  reader  who  brings  an 
unprejudiced   mind   to   the   study  of   these 
narratives  will  feel  and  confess  the  wonder 
and  the  power  of  religion. 

But  scepticism  will  raise  two  objections. 
We  shall  be  told,  first,  that  it  is  doubtful 
whether  these  conversions  last;  and,  second,  that 
the  word  religion  is  merely  an  unscientific  term 
for  mental  excitement.  The  value  of  the  conver- 
sions will  be  depreciated  by  the  first  criticism; 
their  testimony  to  the  truth  of  religion  assailed 
by  the  second.  I  am  anxious  to  meet  these  two 
objections  which  are  so  general  in  modern  society, 
modern  society  with  its  mouth  full  of  negations 
and  its  soul  empty  of  affirmations,  and  to  show 
their  shallowness. 

Most  of  the  men  whose  stories  are  narrated  in 
these  pages  have  carried  their  regeneration  over 
several  years;  not  one  of  them  has  been  recently 
converted.  Such  tremendous  change  lasting  over 
a  week,  over  a  month,  would  be  wonderful  and 
worth  while;  what  does  scepticism  say  when  all 
of  these  conversions  are  declared  to  be  a  matter 

372 


POSTSCRIPT  273 

of  years?  And  here  is  a  brief  story  of  a  man 
converted  by  the  Salvation  Army  long  before  it 
had  assumed  its  present  form  and  title,  while  it 
was  still  known  among  the  polite  as  the  Christian 
Mission,  and  among  the  common  people  as  the 
Top-Hat  Brigade,  the  story  of  a  man  who  has 
continued  in  his  conversion,  through  difficulty  and 
obstruction,  all  those  long  years  down  to  the 
present  day. 

John  Garry  ran  away  from  home  at  the  age  of 
fourteen,  and  attached  himself  to  a  travelling 
circus.  He  is  described  as  a  "  smart  and  wicked 
brat,  as  good  a  boy  at  the  game  as  you  could 
meet."  The  immorality  of  this  troupe  did  not 
shock  him  in  the  least.  He  proved  himself  as 
cunning  and  impudent  a  rogue  as  ever  lived  a 
vagabond  life.  Ill-treated,  badly  fed,  and  over- 
worked by  his  masters,  he  yet  kept  his  audacity 
and  cheekiness,  and  saw  that  he  got  as  much 
pleasure  as  possible  out  of  the  general  wickedness 
of  the  company.  When  he  reached  manhood  he 
was  a  dipsomaniac.  Turned  away  from  circus 
after  circus,  he  took  at  last  to  a  cadger's  life,  and 
became  what  is  called  an  "  unemployable."  He 
got  drinks  by  performing  tricks  in  public-houses, 
such,  for  instance,  as  eating  a  cat.  For  what  is 
called  "  a  navvy's  price,"  in  other  words,  "  a  bob 
and  a  pot,"  he  undertook  to  eat  any  dead  cat  that 
was  brought  to  him  in  that  bar,  and  the  winning 
of  this  wager  established  for  him  the  name  of 


274  POSTSCRIPT 

"  The  Cat  Eater."  He  lived  also  largely  by  crime, 
and  was  always  in  hiding  from  the  police. 

Once,  when  he  was  sleeping  in  some  bushes  on 
a  London  common,  he  woke  up  to  find  a  band  of 
people  gathered  together  beside  a  tent  quite  close 
to  him.  The  men  were  in  black  coats  and  tall 
hats.  The  Cat  Eater  instantly  imagined  that  they 
were  detectives.  When  they  saw  him,  spoke  to 
him,  and  said  that  they  were  going  to  hold  a 
religious  service,  inviting  him  to  join  them,  he 
replied  that  if  it  were  a  job  to  nab  him  he  would 
surely  murder  some  of  them.  Still  unconvinced 
by  their  assurances,  he  suffered  himself  to  enter 
the  tent,  and  there  he  was  converted.  He  felt  a 
desire  for  betterment.  He  prayed  for  mercy. 
He  told  the  missionaries  the  story  of  his  life,  and 
said  that  he  would  begin  again  from  that  mo- 
ment. They  were  kind  to  him,  helped  him  to 
make  a  fresh  start,  and  watched  over  his  new 
birth.  He  married  one  of  the  women  who  had 
seen  him  in  his  rags  and  wretchedness  kneeling 
as  a  penitent  at  that  first  meeting.  And  now,  in 
his  old  age,  he  and  his  wife  are  prosperous  and 
happy  people,  carrying  on  a  good  business  in 
London,  and  following  their  religion  with  de- 
votion. Never  once  through  all  these  long  years 
of  incessant  labour  has  the  ex-dipsomaniac,  the 
ex-cadger,  the  ex-unemployable,  the  ex-cat  eater, 
looked  back  to  his  evil  life. 

Older,  then,  than  the  Salvation  Army  itself  is 


POSTSCRIPT  875 

this  conversion,  and  I  could  fill  pages  with  similar 
stories.  I  ask  the  reader,  who  has  not  studied 
the  question  for  himself,  to  believe  my  assurance 
that  the  records  of  conversion  testify  in  an  over- 
whelming percentage  to  lifelong  victories.  There 
is  no  question  of  that.  And  after  all,  as  one  en- 
deavoured to  point  out  in  "  Apparent  Failure,"  the 
relapses  among  converted  people  only  witness  to 
the  tremendous  conflict  in  every  man's  soul  be- 
tween good  and  evil,  only  serve  to  make  more 
vital  an  apprehension  of  this  eternal  duality  in 
nature,  only  bring  home  to  us  the  significance  of 
this  struggle,  and  the  tremendous  need  for  re- 
ligion as  a  force  in  the  conflict.  Why  the  struggle 
to  be  good  ?  Can  materialism  explain  that  ?  Why 
does  religion  convert  at  all?  Can  scepticism  de- 
clare it? 

But  is  it  "  religion  "  ?  Here  we  reach  the  sec- 
ond objection  of  sceptical  people. 

I  want  to  point  this  out  and  to  make  it  real, 
that  however  science  may  explain  the  psycho- 
logical side  of  conversion,  however  convincingly 
it  may  show  us  that  religion  is  a  clumsy  term  for 
describing  emotional  excitement,  science  itself 
cannot  and  does  not  save  the  lost  and  rescue  the 
abandoned.  Science  cannot  do  this;  it  knows 
how  it  is  done,  and  yet  cannot  itself  do  the 
thing  which  it  assures  us  is  not  a  miracle;  and 
science  does  not  do  it,  does  not  desire  to  do  tt, 
for  the  very  reason  that  it  lacks  the  religious  im- 


276  POSTSCRIPT 

pulse  which  alone  can  accomplish  the  miracle,  the 
miracle  not  only  of  converting  people,  but  of 
making  conversion  of  the  evil  and  the  bad  a  pas- 
sion of  the  life  of  the  good  and  the  virtuous.  It 
is  really  not  so  wonderful  that  religion  should 
transform  character  and  give  new  birth  to  person- 
ality as  that  it  should  inspire  pure  and  holy  people 
with  a  love  for  the  degraded,  the  base,  and  the 
lost.  That  is,  it  seems  to  me,  the  great  testimony 
of  conversion,  the  love  and  the  faith  of  those 
good  and  gentle  souls  who  give  their  lives  in 
rescuing  the  outcasts  of  society.  Religion  alone 
can  create  this  sublime  impulse. 

A  poor  creature  of  my  acquaintance,  intellectu- 
ally crippled  and  paralysed  by  success  in  the 
schools,  endeavours  to  persuade  me  that  there  is 
no  merit  in  this  devotion  and  sacrifice  of  good 
people,  because  they  like  to  do  it,  because  they 
love  doing  it.  And  I  in  vain  endeavour  to  make 
him  perceive  that  unless  they  loved  this  work  and 
were  happy  in  it,  there  would  be  neither  miracle 
nor  merit.  For  is  it  not  the  most  profound  of 
Christ's  revelations  that  all  sacrifice  of  self  and 
all  labour  for  righteousness,  without  love,  are  of 
no  avail?  It  is  their  love  of  saving  souls  which 
most  testifies  to  the  truth  of  religion.  My  poor 
critic,  who  never  yet  raised  his  finger  to  help  a 
fallen  creature,  can  charge  good  people  with  lov- 
ing unselfish  labour,  but  cannot  explain  how  it  is 
they  come  to  love  it.  That  is  religion. 


POSTSCRIPT  277 

To  the  unprejudiced  reader  I  offer  this  book, 
with  the  request  that  he  will  contemplate  the 
narratives  with  honesty  and  common  sense,  con- 
sidering within  himself  these  simple  reflections: 

Men,  radically  bad,  radically  evil — a  burden 
to  the  State,  a  scandal  to  civilization,  and  a  dis- 
grace to  humanity — become,  under  the  influence 
of  religion,  good,  honest,  industrious,  and  kind. 

Homes  where  children  suffer  frightfully,  where 
privation  and  tyranny  obscure  all  the  beauty  and 
all  the  blessing  of  existence;  homes  so  base,  vile, 
and  cruel  that  they  cannot  be  described,  become, 
under  the  influence  of  religion,  happy,  virtuous, 
and  glad. 

Vices  which  degrade  men  lower  than  the  brutes, 
which  make  them  loathsome  in  the  sight  of  re- 
spectable people,  and  fill  our  prisons  and  work- 
houses with  an  immense  burden  on  the  commu- 
nity, under  the  influence  of  religion  lose  every 
fibre  of  their  power,  and  drop  away  from  the 
strangled  souls  of  their  victims  like  dead  ivy, 
like  an  outworn  garment. 

Sins  and  crimes  which  retard  the  progress  of 
the  race,  which  breed  corruption,  degeneration, 
and  prosperous  misery,  under  the  influence  of  re- 
ligion cease  to  have  power  over  the  minds  of  men, 
and  in  the  instant  of  conversion  appear  horrible 
and  inimical. 

Let  the  reader  bear  these  things  in  mind,  and 
ask  himself  what  would  become  of  humanity  if 


£78  POSTSCRIPT 

materialism  triumphed  over  religion,  and  life  were 
revealed  to  the  masses  of  the  human  race  only  as 
a  struggle  for  existence.  Could  the  law,  could 
eugenics,  assure  us  of  evolution?  "  Socrates 
confessed  that  it  was  through  a  hard  struggle 
that  he  attained  virtue.  An  ultra-evolutionist 
would  have  eliminated  him  in  his  first  stage. 
Nero,  on  the  other  hand,  set  out  well."  Professor 
Goldwin  Smith,  who  makes  this  telling  remark, 
might  have  cited  with  Socrates  the  great  Augus- 
tine, St.  Francis,  David,  and  many  another  whose 
struggle  towards  righteousness  has  sustained  and 
assisted  generation  after  generation  of  men  strug- 
gling to  attain  their  highest.  Hear  him  on  the 
necessity,  even  from  a  material  point  of  view, 
for  religion  in  its  sanction  of  the  conscience: 

"  But  if  this  life  ends  all,  I  do  not  see  how 
conscience  can  retain  its  authority.  The  author- 
ity of  conscience,  it  seems  to  me,  is  religious. 
.  .  .  In  the  absence  of  such  a  sanction  what 
can  there  be  to  prevent  a  man  from  following 
his  own  inclinations,  good  or  bad,  beneficent  or 
murderous,  so  long  as  he  keeps  within  the  pale 
of  the  law,  or  manages  to  escape  the  police? 
One  man  is  a  lamb  by  nature,  another  is  a  tiger. 
Why  is  not  the  tiger  as  well  as  the  lamb  to  follow 
his  nature,  so  far  as  the  law  will  let  him  or  as 
he  has  power  ?  Eccelino,  for  instance,  was  by  na- 
ture a  devil  incarnate,  a  sort  of  Satanic  enthusiast 
of  evil.  What  had  merely  utilitarian  morality 


POSTSCRIPT  279 

to  say  against  his  gratification  of  his  propensities 
as  long  as  he  had  power  on  his  side  ?  " 

The  common  sense  of  this  subject  is  that  life 
without  conscience  becomes  a  destroying  animal- 
ism, and  that  conscience  without  religion  has 
neither  force  nor  justification  for  its  restraints. 

Those  who  know  life  deeply  and  intimately, 
who  are  profoundly  acquainted  with  all  the  suffer- 
ing, sorrow,  misery,  and  sin  of  cities  and  villages, 
those  whose  studies  are  not  limited  to  books  read 
in  a  library,  or  to  discussions  accidentally  started 
in  a  drawing-room,  know  as  the  first  axiom  of 
their  knowledge  that  religion  alone  among  all  the 
forces  at  work  for  the  improvement  of  humanity 
has  power  to  alter  the  character  and  regenerate 
the  soul  of  evil  people.  Legislation  may  better 
house  the  poor,  may  educate  their  children,  limit 
the  opportunities  for  drink  and  crime,  and  punish 
evil-doers  with  a  saner  and  more  determined 
effort  at  their  moral  reformation,  but  without 
religion  they  will  never  give  spiritual  joy  and 
rejoicing  strength  to  the  posterity  on  which  evo- 
lution depends. 

"No  heart  is  pure  that  is  not  passionate;  no 
virtue  is  safe  that  is  not  enthusiastic." 

When  I  visit  the  happy  homes  and  experience 
the  gentleness,  kindness,  and  refinement  of  such 
people  as  those  whose  life-stories  appear  in  this 
book,  and  compare  them  with  the  squalor  and 
misery  of  the  great  majority  of  homes  surround- 


280  POSTSCRIPT 

ing  them,  I  am  astonished  that  the  world  should 
be  so  incredulous  about  religion,  and  that  legisla- 
tion should  be  so  foolish  as  to  attempt  to  do 
laboriously  by  enactments,  clumsy  and  slow,  what 
might  be  done  instantly  and  easily  by  religion, 
if  it  had  the  full  force  of  the  community  at  its 
back. 

Greater  faith  is  necessary  to  the  salvation  of 
this  country.  Without  God,  vain  is  the  work 
of  the  builders. 


from  which  it  was  borrowed 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGONA 


A     000  707  676     3 


